Doxology
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Thank You, unfathomable Father God—
—such soft green early light,
this pungent tropical coffee steam,
resplendent music of young wrens
and wet dripping leaves,
the smells of morning rain:
Your presents waking us, from night
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“Every desirable and perfect gift
comes out of heaven. The gifts
are rivers of light, cascading down
from the Father of Light”
–James, chapter 1, verse 17 (The Message)
“In everything give thanks
for this is God’s will for you
in Christ Jesus”
–1 Thessalonians, chapter 5, verse 18
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–Quilla
Twenty Images of November
With deep thanks, and praise: to the Father of Lights
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“Do not be deceived, my beloved brothers.
Every good thing given and every perfect gift
is from above, coming down
from the Father of lights,
with whom there is no variation
or shifting shadow.”
–James chapter one, verses 16 & 17
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Father God, I pray for each person who views these images of late autumn—these small frames of beauty you have shown to me. I have known for many years that all true beauty is a reflection of You, a gift, from Your loving heart, Your infinitely creative mind. I praise You for the rich textures, shapes, colors and the passing shadows of time You give to us each day, so much of it we often do not see.
Father of lights, open the eyes of each one who sees these pictures, open the eyes of their human hearts—to see Your divine beauty, an expression of Your divine heart of perfect redeeming love, for each and all of us.
In the name of the LORD of Light, even Christ, our Savior, I thank You.
–Quilla
November 21…….Thanksgiving eve
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Praise
The low sun of late November
feels faintly warm, welcome now
uplifted face, and hands.
Fingers of wan, yellow light
search the bare and shining trees,
weaving soft grey plaids of shadow.
Chill winds rattle the stalks of dead weeds.
Someone, not quite seen, quietly walks
the floor of fallen leaves, speaking
certain stark words, of winter.
The grey hulks of mountains have gone
back inside themselves again, old monks
huddled under the mauve and umber wool
of sleeping woods.
Cloud shadows cast themselves across
the folded, fallen slopes—all the brief summers
centuries have passed.
I lift my hands again into the Light
—this low, late autumn light—
speaking certain words of thanks
for all the beauty I have known.
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–Quilla
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“Through Him, then, let us
continually offer up a sacrifice of praise
to God, that is, the fruit of lips
that give thanks to His name.”
–Hebrews, chapter 13, verse 15
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Watching Autumn. . .(reprise)
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Watching Autumn
A quiet, almost windless morning, mid-autumn.
Wide swaths of early sun lay soft
long shadows on the land.
Now comes the yielding up, giving back the best.
The last sweet fruits must fall.
Shawls of rich color flare into the bright
darkness of late October air, like funeral flames
or flowers, so reluctant, letting beauty go.
Perhaps the ancient earth itself shows us
how to worship—breathing offerings
with no pretense, like wisps of incense
drifting up in fragrant matins,
our myths of Self disperse
in acts of morning praise.
Watching these dying autumn days
we do not pretend. Nor do we deny:
that something fierce in us of earth, more pure
than starlight piercing deep black sky—
the Creator’s beauty, His power lives in us
and wants to live forever, too.
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–Quilla
Only A Few Moments
A high wind-blown slope, a cold October hill
I lay down to rest, and slept in summer grass below the wind.
I wakened, chilled, uncertain a few moments
where I was, or where I’d been.
From the cloudy falling sun misty shafts of golden light
fell soft like love, like stairs, down to the purple waves and hollows
of the hurting, peopled land—bound toward storms, and night.
Only a few moments, and grey curtains of mountain rain
closed again the open stairs of light.
Returning home in the dark, I felt the long blue fingers
of the ancient cold still holding my bones.
And yet, the golden ways of light were also reaching down
and shining through the stormy skies of mind.
I thought: how wordlessly good this shelter, this cup of strong black tea,
these flakes of a few wild fish and grains of rice, this woman
and this child, this time, indeed these very words—all, given to me.
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Ruach 333, by Quilla 