Songbird

Winter is somber beneath grey skies,
Autumn mouldering in scattered leafpiles,
Summer's ember a mere memory,
Spring a songbird long flown south.

Sheol opens his mouth and closes his eyes,
So the dead earth comes as no surprise
Here in December's darkling days,
When life's dim flame is guttering out.

The year's last sharp moonsliver
Is smothered by cloudwisps
Here in the last, darkest hour
Before the final dawn.

Wind whips anything it can,
Driving the enduring chill
Down through skin, down through bone,
Down, down, down to the depths.

It is hard to remember the songbird's breath
Here in a land of cold, dark death,
But her return does not depend
Upon our belief or remembrances.

Make no mistake: She will return.
As surely as the dancing spheres
Bring dawn and winter's end,
We will hear birdsong again.

A Prayer Before Writing

Our Father, architect of all that is,
You formed gas giants and ribosomes,
Alligators and daffodils,
Optic nerves and salt crystals,
All by the word of Your mouth.

When You had finished,
You looked on Your work with joy
And called it good.

O Lord, we would follow your example.
Like children building sand castles
In the shadow of the Taj Mahal,
We see your wondrous works
And long to make beautiful things,
To speak worlds of our own making
Into marvelous existence.

And so we humbly ask
That Your Spirit would inhabit our efforts,
That You would empower Your people,
Made in Your image,
To write new songs and scenes,
To weave words into marvelous tapestries,
To shine beacons into the world's dark places,
To seek out the truest paths,
To tell good stories
That echo back the best story:
Your story of love and loss and redemption.

Bless and direct our efforts now, O gracious Father,
So that when we look back on them,
We can call them very good.