Last Monday Morning in March

A slow-motion tinge of green
spreads across the fields,
fringes the edges of the yard,
and begins to fill the ditches.

Swelling bursts of buds erupt in red clusters 
toward the ends of gray-splotched branches
on the three maples that have chanced to grow
in paddock and pasture.

A scattering of thin-bladed sprouts
stick out through the hoof-pocked muck
of the dry lot where last week's rain
changed the sloping terrain from calm to caution.

Several short sweeps of slick mud
show where hard hooves slid
in search of traction as the geldings
made their way toward the tarp-covered hay.

Beyond the heavy trunks of ancient elm
and the interlacing undergrowth 
of mulberry, oak, and hackberry, 
jangled along the eastern edge of the yard,

The first hard glare of a fireball sun
breaks out from behind a blue-slate cloud,
piercing the last remnants of last night's
shroud of darkness

In yet one more joining of prayer and prophecy,
transforming dawn into morning
amidst the mingling shafts of light and streaks of shadow
of this new day that the Lord has made.

H. Arnett

About Doc Arnett

Native of southwestern Kentucky currently living in Ark City, Kansas, with my wife of twenty-nine years, Randa. We have, between us, eight children and twenty-eight grandkids. We enjoy singing, worship, remodeling and travel.
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