Garden
Daffodils
Click for meditationRegarding "Daffodils"
It came to me
That my own pilgrim’s path
Resembles the
Seasonal flow of my
Garden in a four-part act, with
The fresh growth of
Springtime’s hope and
Rebirth akin to my
Ever-evolving
Renewal, followed
By the endurance
Required in the summer
Heat of July…a
Metaphor for the
Endless twists and turns of
The human condition
As it sits the beach of
Low and high tides…
And then the final
Burst of color and beauty
In autumn, before
Plunging again
Into the deep sleep
Of winter, only to
Arise again in April,
Pointed and poised to
Resume my journey,
But always bowed by the
Growing pains of
Bloom in my
Season of change…
Leo Carroll
May 7, 2019
…One of the first
Fruits of spring — daffodils
Buttery-yellow and
Dangling from the
Ear lobes of morning —
And at their feet
In fealty, the remnants of a
Once-magnificent,
Autumn leaf, placed by
Winter’s wind and
Now a companion
And witness to
The fresh shoots
Of daylilies green,
And all of these
Stirrings staring into
The stoic eyes of
Garden stones, the
Singular thread
Stitching together
My rock garden
As my shifting
Seasons unfold…
Spring Cleaning
Click for meditationRegarding "Spring Cleaning"
Birds are so faithful,
And in my opinion are
Attuned to the emotions of people
They encounter. The chirp
Of a bird can be so uplifting and
Mood-changing, and
Seems to come at the
Most opportune
Of times. I believe
Birds can “sense” our
Minds and emotions, and
Can be “there” when we need
Someone or something
To be “there!” So
Often I have been
Stunned by the ministry
And blessings of birds.
Chickadees, in
Particular, are good
Examples of this. They
Are tiny, but their
Hearts are so large!
Once on a cold and raw,
Autumn day in New
Hampshire, I was standing
Beneath a very large pine in the
Woods and watching a
Flock of chickadees about
Fifty feet in front of
Me. Over a course of
Several minutes, they kept
Inching their way
Towards me, hopping
From branch to branch,
Until finally they
Were about five feet in
Front of my face…
Then, they all rose up with
A rush, with the feathers
Of one of them brushing my
Right cheek! What an
Expression of love that was,
What tenderness, what
A wonderful way to be
Touched by the wings of God!
And thus also this
Past spring, when I was
Doing cleanup in my
Garden after the snow and
Wind of winter, I was standing
In a bunch of leaves with
My rake when I heard a
Flurry of activity around me,
And I realized it was the
Love of chickadees
Returned to me again, as
They flapped their
Wings about my feet,
And anointed me with
Maple leaves fluffed
About my boots without
My even asking …
Leo Carroll
October 1, 2019
A rustle in the leaves —
Surrounding and about my feet — and
Each maple leaf moves as
If fluffed by the wind,
But lo, ’twas not
A zephyr, but a gust of
Chickadees alighting like an
Angelic hymn!
Winter Blessings
Click for meditationRegarding "Winter Blessings"
All it took was the
Meditative rhythm of the
Sound of light rain falling on
A small garden bed
Covered in old oak and
Maple leaves, to
Soothe the seas of
My mood, and then
Adding to this calming
Effect was the soft sound of the
Same rain hitting the
Mossy and mottled
Rocks of an adjacent,
Worn stone wall …
Reminding me once
Again that the gifts from
Creation actually
Occur all year-round,
Not just in spring or
Summer or fall,
But in winter when
First impulse might be
To don sackcloth
And ashes, but instead
The January drizzle
Wags its finger and says,
“No, not at all …!”
Leo Carroll
January 11, 2019
I hear
The pitter-patter of light
Rain on leaves, maple and oak and
What else lies hibernating between, and
I hear an even softer sound
As it lands on a nearby
Stone wall’s mottled moss,
Green and grey in blotches, an old
Coat from the colonial era,
But to me now like new
Wineskin cloth . . . and
Thus my ears listen intently,
Interpreting, soothed by
This revelation and nurture
Alive in my January garden,
When winter would
Otherwise harness me
To my mood, and it wouldn’t
Be until the first crocus’s
Song that I’d dare consider what
Spring’s freedom could
Loose.
Wagon Wheel
Click for meditationRegarding "Wagon Wheel"
A wagon wheel is faithful,
Always ready to roll…the only time
It stops working is when
It breaks and needs
Fixing, or when it
Is too old to be repaired.
Wagon wheels are
Held in mystical esteem.
Anytime someone drives in a rural
Area, even in an area which
Is no longer rural, it is
Possible to come upon a
Wagon wheel leaning against
A stone wall, a tree,
A barn, or something else.
They are rarely discarded.
They are respected.
Sometimes they are revered.
They are reminders of a
Simpler time of life – hard working
And dutiful. The lupines
In the photograph know what
The old days were like.
They grew then, just
As they also grow now.
Their collective memory
Knows the importance
And meaning of a wagon
Wheel. That is why they stand
In homage around the grey, weathered
Rim and spokes, and listen
To the stories…stories of what the
Wheels and their wagons once did, before
They became tired and broken and
Weathered and…
Leo Carroll
December 13, 2018
At last it has come to rest,
An old wagon wheel weathered, with its
Wizened spokes pointed outward
As if still poised in
Yesteryear’s duty-radius.
No more turns now, no
More thoughts of service, just a green field
Of lupines, to bind its
Wooden wounds in June’s
Glorious fervor.
And so it sits, alone
And at ease until gloaming’s end, alone
Except for lupines, and the
Lavender praise and reverence
Of their hymns.
Colors of Armistice
Click for meditationRegarding "Colors of Armistice"
On a grey and cold November day
In 1929, eighty nine years ago,
My father was working with my
Grandfather cutting firewood in the
Backyard. My father was eight
Years old, and the First World War
Had ended 11 years before.
All of a sudden, the “whistles”
Went off in the town, and
My father was startled. He asked
My grandfather what the
Whistles were for, and my
Grandfather told him that the
“War” had ended at that
Very hour, 11 years before…
My father never forgot
That moment, and every Armistice
Day, or Veterans Day as it is
Now called in the United States,
He would tell me the story.
Fast forward fifty six years later
To 1985, and I was living in Belgium.
It was common in Europe for
People to wear a small red poppy
In their lapel on Armistice Day because of the
Great poem, “In Flanders Fields,” written in 1915
By Canadian Lieutenant Colonel and doctor, John McCrae.
At the time of the poem, beautiful red
Poppies were seen to be growing up out of the
Grasses where dead soldiers were hastily
Buried in Ypres, Belgium. And so my
Memories became even further stirred
On November 11th every year…
Now I will always go out into my garden
On that day, and think of my
Father’s stories, and I will always
Look for a late autumn flower
To symbolize the beautiful red poppy.
This year I saw a pink daisy.
It stood in remembrance as well.
Leo Carroll
November 21, 2018
On this day,
Holy in the fields of
Flanders and
On the lapels o’er
Countless
Hearts,
Bloom
Poppies in the
Sacred
Color of
Vibrant red.
On this same
Day in a
Late autumn
Garden,
Blooms in
Solidarity a pink
Daisy,
Affirming in
Remembrance
There is no
Death…