Palmtree Contemplations

I found Dad by the river, checking on his trees. "Pai," I called.  "Hey sweetheart."  "What are you doing?"  He held out a pair of scissors. "The trees need to be trimmed."  They stood in a line parallel to the river, baby versions of a tree that had grown up completely by accident farther down the bank. Most of them came up to my shoulder now, their thin arms eagerly reaching for sunlight. Dad hoped they would prevent the soft bank from more erosion during rainy season.  He passed me the scissors, and we moved down the row, snipping off a foot or more of their height. "They grow so fast, they can't support the weight," Dad explained. Clipping their tips kept them from growing incorrectly. If we didn't clip them, they would break from the strain, or sag towards the ground rather than reaching towards the sun.  I thought about this the other day as I watched the hairdresser take off the last remnants o

The Convent of Saint Arbucks is located where the road of Moreland crosses the Fields of Dela. We are a small, but important place of service in the community. Without us, the spiritual energy of the place would no doubt drop to a very low degree, as would the overall happiness of the surrounding populace. We may be few, but we are fierce in our protection of Saint Arbucks' shrine. Every day, the local laity come to the shrine to pay their respects. Most stay only a few moments, while others sit and meditate with great concentration for many hours. Sometimes I wonder if they are truly here to think about Saint Arbucks and her generous ways. If they were, would not their contribution to the convent be much greater? My habit is green and black. Some of the other nuns wear white to demonstrate their cleanliness in service, but I have no such aspirations. I do not wish to be reminded of my own shortcomings through incurred mocha stains. We take visiting monks sometimes. We even h

We cut the motor and paddle round the bend,  Gliding into the sandy shore,  Our way marked by headlamps,  Lonely flecks of light on a dark river.  Quietly whispering, we wet our ankles  And disembark, throwing sandals to the grass,  Shouldering luggage and expectations.  Our feet know the way, every dip and furrow. Lizards skitter, bullfrogs honk,  Mosquitoes drone and buzz A quiet music in the heavy night air. Two dogs come alongside, snorting and jumping,  Recognizing our scents from long ago,  Up through the trees we weave,  Crunching on half dead leaves and sticks. The door swings opens at the top of the hill,  And we look back out and down to  A little world full of sleeping dreamers, Safe for a while as we once were. Matches are struck with familiar ease,  Stubby candles lit and arranged With a forgotten grace.  Falling back on rickety beds,  We watch the light stretch and flicker Over rafters to the screen window Like fingers re