by Michele Morin

“As for man, his days are as grass;
as a flower of the field, so he flourishes.
For the wind passes over it, and it is gone,
and the place thereof remembers it no more.”

Psalm 103:15, 16


Every day there are fewer shingles — and more bare roof.
Every day there is less barn and more sky
it becomes clear to us that walls are also passing away,
a melancholy nod to the flowers of the field
who spend their winters in barn-storage,
The wind having already passed over their flourishing.
There is merit,
(wisdom at least)
in the contemplation of
a barn-less field,
a me-less world:
“Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
But Old Testament poets notwithstanding,
there will be a Second Wind,
Who will tease mortal hay back into clover, timothy, succulent greens;
stir the dry bones;
reconstitute my known frame, while that Living Wind whispers,




Michele Morin is a teacher, reader, writer, and gardener who does life with her family on a country hill in Maine. She has been married to an unreasonably patient husband for nearly 30 years, and together they have four sons, two daughters-in-love, and three adorable grandchildren. Michele is active in educational ministries with her local church and delights in sitting at a table surrounded by women with open Bibles. Connect by following her blog at Living Our Days, or via Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

Gilt Gift


Gilt Gift
by Jody Collins

Sometimes I guilt myself right out of
joy. Like the surprise of an iridescent
butterfly from an unsightly cocoon,
who would expect this shimmering
show in morning sunlight?
My eyes trained on Northwest firs
framed in blue, frosted feeders,
feathered presents hidden among
the trees.
Moments pass.

I’ve held my breath, wondering.
Did my mother ever ponder stilling
herself, take a moment with the
birds in her California garden? Gaze
restful at morning fog carried in
on marine air? Was she ever at
ease in her troubled
life, parenting us five alone?
I will never know.
I cannot ring her up to ask, there is
no email to send, no letter to write.
She is gone, stolen far too soon.
I abandon this feigned injustice.
How wildly unfair that I should gather
such beauty as surely she never did.

I will not leave reason to balance the
ledger, steal this away, too. The
feathered hum of heat, filigreed pane,
frosty view. I drink in sleeping green,
the fluttering avian dance, breathe
in the brilliant morning.
Surrender my second guesses and leave
logic to philosophers, welcoming with
wonder this gilt gift, nothing to ponder
but my thanks.




Jody Collins is a blatant philologist and poetry lover living in the Pacific Northwest with her very patient husband. She uses both gardening and writing as therapy, often featuring her 6 grandchildren, whom she thanks God for daily. Jody’s been penning words since Smith-Corona typewriters graced the desks of her middle school, but nowadays you can find her thoughts at  Twitter: @JodyLeeCollins2  Instagram: @jody_lee_collins