Our ‘Present’ Life

Like rabbit in a gilded cage, a cage of my own making,
I'm furry, soft, and cuddly now, a life out there forsaking.
Sometimes it's better to give up when things no longer matter
Than take a plane to La-la land, or end as windshield splatter.

You know I am where e'er I am, O Lord, so what's the difference?
When there's a thing which you want done, and orders are at issuance,
You'll find a way, or make a way, to work around these limits
Of water, plastic, wood, and grass, despite how little's in it.

I went to group last night and saw I'd moved three miles eastwards
To rocks and water on the shore of island to the leeward;
Ahead a bay with beach and trees but ending in a blockage,
Like Bottle Bay which quiet lay, a reef providing stoppage.

Then lifting up my eyes I saw a plane they called “Exactly”
Which headed to a rising sun of books and life quite crafty;
Behind me lay that place of death, and end of easy money;
The way of blockage up ahead of service, war – not fun, eh?

But I had moved, last time I walked along this shore quite sandy,
I photographed amazing life of ducklings, snails, quite dandy
Until the sun arose and woke the others of my family,
’Cept dad of course, for he had died and left us all quite shambley.

But houseboat trip consoled my mom, and gave us each a treasure
To carry through the troubled years – a piece we could not measure;
But things have changed, that place now whirls with cottages a plenty,
With bears and other wildlife round – not safe – no longer empty.

I long for northern lakes and trees, with rocks and quiet sunsets;
With scent of pines, and yielding moss, and flowers' gentle pockets;
The call of birds deep in the woods, woodpecker nest a making;
The water lapping on the rocks, the loon of joy partaking.

Now You have made a place for me, here in this urban center –
A garden slice of Northern wood, a paradise to enter;
It has its patch and evergreens, and stream and falling water –
A secret garden, like that book read to us kids by mother.

I did not know that I had built a slice of early lifetime,
But standing back and viewing it I see a present life line –
For future is a mystery; past, history (there's plenty);
But present is a gift from you, lest what we live feel empty.

The birds sing daily in the trees and flutter to the feeder;
My wife works ably at her job, of books she is a reader;
My kids do life; grandchildren grow, they visit here each Friday;
And I write books and poetry, take photos, build and tidy.

I think of Paul, a prisoner in his days of introspection –
How blessed we are to have his notes and bits of his reflection;
He had a rough and tumble life – he lived as Spirit Walker
And then he wrote his letters out when kept from being a talker.

I'm sure some folks could use his help – some came to him for talking,
But many more just stumbled on no light to aid their walking;
E'en though his words were written for that Greco-Roman grouping,
We hermeneutically read them now, they lift us from our stooping.

Lord, as I enter this new day, before at lake we gather,
Help each and every one of us, to savour things that matter;
Fulfill our hopes and dreams somehow beyond wild expectation,
So ’fore we leave this life below, we're blessed by situation.

That plane that's in the picture there, in mind I'm riding in it,
But it has left the neighbourhood, flies over, not within it.
I wave a hand and wish it well then turn from things celestial
To sand and rocks beneath my feet – addressing life terrestrial.

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