A.D. 2025

A poetic reflection on 2025

January

“On Finishing the Book” | 1/13/25

Odd, how I feel torn apart
And mended when I type “The End.”
I want to shout my accomplishment from the rooftops,
But I also want to hide it from the world—
A secret known only to me and my book characters.
It’s almost as if I’m closing a door
Behind which is chronicled a part of my life,
Or letting go of the lifeline I’ve been clinging to,
Or saying goodbye to someone I love dearly.
But my characters are still there,
Just a few clicks away;
They’re not dead or gone or hiding.
I can find them if I wish.
Finishing a book is an odd feeling.
Yet, the elation I’m experiencing
Makes me want to do it again:
Carry characters on a long journey of
Growth and redemption and healing,
On to a glorious denouement.
I’ll never grow weary of that sigh of relief
When I type the very last sentence.
So, yes, I’m done, finished—but not ended.
The close of one story is only the beginning of another tale,
So much greater than me.
Not— “The End.”

February

“Haiku for a Walk in the Wind” | 2/25/25

I walk in the wind.
It’s cold, slicing through my clothes
With an airy knife.
The neighbors’ wind chimes
Ring out like cathedral bells,
Copied in miniature.
Smoke billows from a
Chimney, spicing the air with
Woodsy aromas.
As I face the wind,
I feel as if I’m fighting
A battle against
Something much greater
Than I am. And yet, it is
Not a harsh fight; we
Are friends, this great wind and me.
I walk in the wind.

March

“Haiku for Spring” | 3/6/25

A blue sky today,
With robins singing a song
Of April, of spring.
A warm breeze today,
Making the swelling buds dance
The ballet of spring.
Bright sunlight today,
Glowing and golden—brand-new—
Transforming the world.
Bursting soil today,
With green defying the frost,
Crocus coming soon.
Spring weather today,
With a promise of flowers—
A promise of green.

April

“Meraki” | 4/9/25

Lord, into this project, I poured my soul.
In this story, let the world see Your face.
In these pages, let creation see Your grace.
Lord, take my words; let them make someone whole.
Let Your heart, Lord, shine out in my story.
May my words reflect Your fatherly heart.
May You be the main subject of my art.
Let the earth see, through me, Your great glory.
I want You, Lord Jesus, to be my muse.
You’re the story I want the world to read.
You’re the author I want to work in me.
I don’t need awards; fame’s not what I choose.
You’re the publisher. I want You to lead.
You’re the greatest author: my meraki.

May

“Poem Written while Listening to Keats’ ‘This Living Hand’” | 5/20/25

John Keats carried Shakespeare’s
Picture wherever he went.
Two great poetic souls—
Genius by genius inspir’d.
Two men of words walking
Across England’s countryside—
One long dead, one living.
What would happen if genius
With genius collided?
A spark, a flame, a wildfire
Of all-consuming words?
Would the world flame with their
Poetry? Oh, what great works—
Greater than all other
Works made by genius alone—
Shakespeare and Keats might write.
Two genius, poetic souls:
One long dead, one living.

June

“In Imitation of The Odyssey” | 6/24/25

Sing to me, O Lord, to remind me
That I am not alone. Master of Heaven,
Maker of skies, walk beside me
And whisper Your truths in my ear.
Sing of Your terrible, beautiful mercy,
Lord of creation, to bring to mind
Every time You’ve rescued me before.
Master of Heaven, be the still, small voice
That—wherever I go—whispers,
“This is the way; walk in it.”
Master of skies, Lord of creation,
Wherever I go—up to Heaven or
Down to Hades—You are there,
Singing over me because You somehow
Take delight in me, a jar of clay.
Receive, O Lord, my song of prayerful praise.

July

“10,000 Acres” | 7/10/25

10,000 acres of burning trees
Smudge my familiar landscape.
All around me, smoke and fire—
Though it hasn’t touched me yet.
My beloved mountains,
My stately pines,
Consumed by an inferno
Rather like Dante’s.
Wandering the forest,
I see the wounds left by fire,
But the air no longer reeks
Of dying trees.
Charcoaled towers stand among
The evergreens,
But no cinders singe
The tangy air.
10,000 burning acres surround me,
Yet I live in a world where
Ashes can be exchanged
For beauty—
Where mountains only remember fire
As the reason for their scars.
Fire paves the way for abundance,
For new life.
Hope springs from soil
Made fertile by ash and flame.
10,000 acres will burn—
But after the inferno,
10,000 acres will bloom
Like paradise.

August

“READY” | 8/26/25

Hello, overcast world.
You look ready for autumn.
Trees, you look ready for your leaves to fall—
To be crimson.
Leaves, you look ready to be upon solid ground
In mounds of brown, gold, orange, and red.
Sky, you’ve been hiding behind a bright face for so long.
You look ready to cry once more.
Oh, warm world,
How ready we are for frost.
Oh, Lord of seasons,
How much we thirst for drenching rains.
Oh, Master of these spinning planets,
How ready we are for autumn—
For winter.
Goodbye, bright summer.
Hello, overcast world.

September

“Smoke” | 9/3/25

I know there are mountains there,
But they’ve become shady ghosts.
I know that trees and flowers are scenting the breeze,
But the scent of fire has drowned them out.
How long, O Lord? How long?
We are living in a sunbaked, thirsty land,
And we see no visible relief from this inferno.
I’m watching my world burn up, Lord.
How long? O, how long?
I am so tired,
So weary,
So thirsty.
I ache for streams of water,
Flowing up to make this dry dust fertile,
Streaming down to drench the land and make it green again.
The pines have turned ghostly,
The mountains are cloaked,
The sky is smudgy.
I don’t know how much more of this we can take, O Lord.
How long? How long?
Where You walk, the desert
Blossoms like the rose,
And streams of living water
Flow from Zion.
How long until this bone-dry dirt comes alive?
How long until rain pours down from the sky?
How long, O Lord?
How much more patience must we have?
How many more prayers must we pray?
How long until our whispered petitions number as many as the trees—now charred remains?
How long, Lord?
The smoke that surrounds us is but a veil—
And when that veil is torn,
Sunlight shines through.
How long until the veil is permanently torn asunder?
How long until the land is refreshed by rain?
How long until the smoke is but a memory?
O Lord, how long?
Keep me steadfast.

October

“Amber Acorns” (in response to J. Ekpo’s Fall 2025 prompts) | 10/4/25

The days glow with the warmth and depth of amber,
With memories suspended in their brightness.
And acorns are being planted…
Seedlings which will become
Mighty oaks.
There are flaws and faults in the amber,
But the light shines through all the same.
The seedlings may be planted in faulty soil,
But their roots grow deep.
Amber and acorns
Color my days.
Light and shadow,
Tearing up and rooting more firmly,
Gold and more gold.
The long days stretch out,
Warm and lazy in the crisp air,
And I find myself feeling more alive.
The coldness awakes me, Lord,
And the first frosts sting my senses
Until I feel more sharply.
With each and every acorn planted,
With each memory—painful or pleasant—
Suspended in amber,
Lord, grow me.
Root me.
Awaken me to Your glory.
Let me see You shining in these autumnal days,
The brightest and best of October’s glory.

November

“The First Sunday of Advent” | 11/30/25

Something’s different this week,
And church doesn’t feel quite the same.
Maybe it’s the Christmas verse in “Your Name.”
Maybe it’s Isaiah’s prophecy read from the pulpit:
“Unto us a Child is born...a Son is given.…”
But everything has an expectant feeling.
The world, the sky, the moon, the birds:
All creation has paused, awaiting
That Child promised to us by a prophet.
When is He coming?
The wind is cold, and the ground is ice-crusted,
But the light flooding over the mountains
Is golden—the people in darkness have seen light.
All nature awaits the coming of the Prince of Peace.
Where is He?
Winter’s here. Gray coats the world. Ice shines like steel.
But here, in the church,
We’re singing about “God with us, Emmanuel,”
And even as my heart is stirred by this mystery, the world feels warmer.
But when will He arrive?
We stand with hands lifted,
Awaiting His advent.

December

“Flood” | 12/24/25

Mud and leaves clog the ditch,
And though next year this soil will be rich,
Right now, it’s a mess of mud and debris.
This flood brings me to my knees,
And I pray as I pull handfuls of grime
From among the blades of grass;
I remind myself that this, too, will pass.
Even flooded ground grows fertile in time.
The grass, soggy though it may be,
Is greener, and as I’m on my knees,
Wet and smeared with dirt, the sunlight
Feels warmer than when the river’s level’s right.
The gravel is churned, the grass choked with mud,
But the water’s gone down. Light comes after the flood.

Thank you so much for reading, and happy 2026! 💕