Dried black willow leaves cling
to a twig six weeks before worshippers sing
on Christmas about joy and peace in church.
Saltwater erodes coastal town beaches.
To find the peace which passes
human understanding, I seek every way.
In my front yard, after yellow wings of possibly the last
autumn butterfly float and fly past me,
I find release in Tchaikovsky’s
“Nutcracker” music. The indomitable will
to create fills the void from dark
chaotic times and loss.
Little ones dream.
Light of Jesus, be my guest. Spark heat.
I have promises to keep.
Staying under my roof and ceiling
with precarious security feeling
connections with South Jersey people,
I watch children in nursery work below my church steeple.
Kiefer writes from Cape May.
