thistle

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It came to me again that if we sow thistles, we don’t really plan to get strawberries. If we sow hate, we don’t really expect to receive an abundance of love. We get back in kind that which we sow.

Then another thought came as . . . it’s one thing to reap in kind, but we reap, somehow, always in greater quantity. We sow a little thistle, and we get a lot of thistle—years and years of it, big bushes and branches of it. We never get rid of it unless we cut it out. If we sow a little bit of hate, before we know it we’ve reaped a lot of hate—smoldering and festering and belligerent and finally warring, malicious hate. -Jeffrey R. Holland

broken 2

hey you there, with your dreams crashed on the sidewalk

why are you dwelling in the broken shards that will only cut you further?

look up and about and notice

frost melts, grass grows, skies turn blue

and the sun rises, every morning.

pick yourself off the sidewalk and walk forward

towards the new summer day.

dead winter

I have yet to see crocus.

I have yet to see the large piles of

gritty black snow disappear

(or even diminish, it seems)

on the edges of parking lots

covering up slippery grass

that years to be green again.

I am surrounded by meadows of

blinding white snow and

trees without shade and the sun

beats down without warmth.

I yearn for the gentle petals of spring

to gently appear

amidst desolation.

water drops

when I was younger, I thought the water droplets were

dancing.

they even seemed to jiggle with the beat of the

music.

streaming into each other, they were not

individuals

but a collective of interchanging drops and lines that eventually

soared

off the window, into the air, and became

free.