Melange: my daily mix



collided with Aaron Shust’s song of hope

through the last morning stoplights.

Five solid hours of filing, yet unfinished

slammed into belly laughs with coworkers.

Lost pens, dropped calls, software crashes

melted away with the first bite

of peach pie, nuanced with nutmeg:

my caring sister’s sweet surprise.

A forgotten payment, still on the counter

rear-ended my stolen reading minutes

but didn’t sour the apple cider tea party

I promised my daughter two days ago.

Our teacups’ tiny clinks whispered calm.

Bluegill fried crisp from our own pond

compensated for charred rice and soggy broccoli.

One spread of hand-washed dishes

shushed the pervasive chaos.

Disrespectful words before bed

dissipated as I breathed practice notes

in my flute to old praise hymns.

Isaiah’s vision in my daily verses

rerouted my thoughts

to this morning’s song:

My hope is in You, Lord.




Early mornings I stoop in fields
to gather bread in my skirt’s hollow.
Our sky-fallen supper sparkles like dew.
I harvest white handfuls every day
except the Sabbath.
We grind
bake these flakes
into bread
our bitter meal
for these wandering years
in desolate wilderness.

Homeland flavors tempt my memory:
cool fresh cucumber
savory tender lamb
tangy sweet pomegranate.
Ah, for one cup of wine,
for one last hearty crust.

Dust coats our mouths
in this comfortless land.
Weariness slows our travel
toward unfamiliar horizons.

Where is our promised milk and honey?

Last night I dreamt that a fire column
blazed through choice halved animals.
Smoke stung my nostrils.
A Voice whispered:

I awoke breathless
and crept outside my midnight tent.
A million-star vision
dazzled me.
My heart burned within.

Soon enough the sun rose
over dark fields.
But I averted my eyes, blinded
by the glory
of our daily bread.

One mouthful satisfies.