You Who walked
the crossed streets of Jerusalem
like the waves of the Sea of Galilee.
You Who drank
Your own blood
and passed it out as wine.
You who broke Your body
and brought it back,
bread from Heaven
baked in Hell.
You Who stepped back
into a thunder of clouds
and will step forward
out of a cloud of thunders.
We remember with lilies.
For some reason,
we remember all this fire
with delicate white lilies.
H. Edgar Hix Minneapolis, Minnesota Copyright 1998 H. Edgar Hix
November's melancholy calms my sighs
with somber grays. Her muted beauty speaks
of rest between October's flaming skies
and gold December's rush of hectic weeks.
My hectic senses pause, each in its turn,
as snow's white calmness stills the slightest sound,
and passive, smoky skies let me discern
majestic grace in softened light. I've found
the touch of moistened wind a crisper taste,
a sweeter breath in early-shadowed days.
Breathe on, November, wrap me in your chaste
low clouds. Bereft of color, you hold my gaze.
Enthralled by ageless charm I walk your length,
Throw wide my arms, drink deeply of your strength.
Lora Zill, Conneaut Lake, Pennsylvania, Copyright 1996 Lora H. Zill. First published in The Lyric, Winter 1995.