Nancy Leavitt, renowned artist and CUF member Exhibition in Portland, through April 30: Contemporary Illuminated Manuscripts: the work of Nancy Ruth Leavitt University of Southern Maine, Glickman Family Library, Great Reading Room, 7th floor Free and open to the public, 7:45 am – 11:00 pm daily Lecture and Exhibition Reception: Wednesday, April 3, 4:00 pm
Honor the Holy Trail of Life
by the Reverend Fred Robie
COME DOWN FROM THE PULPIT
TAKE OFF MY ROBE AND STOLE
PULL ON MY BOOTS
TAKE UP MY WALKING STICK
HEAD DOWN THE TRAIL OF LICHEN,
MOSS, ROCK AND TREE
A PARISHIONER OF THE HOLY
INFINITY OF TIME AND SPACE
BESIDE THE BROOK LAUGHING
ALONG ITS WAY TO THE QUIET
CALM OF THE STILLWATER RIVER
GIVES A BIT OF ITS PEACE TO THE DAY
LOOKING UP BEYOND THE COLORING CLOUDS
THE EVENING STARS ARE COMING OUT
TO GIVE MORE ROOM TO SEE
SOME OF THE BIGNESS OF THE UNIVERSE
WITHOUT BOUNDARIES OR WALLS
WALKING WITH A SON ON A WOODED TRAIL
STOP TO GET THE IPHONE OUT
TO SHARE A PICTURE OF SOME WONDER
BEYOND MY WORDS TO TELL
BE IT A MUSHROOM, MOSS OR LICHEN
ROCK AND TREE SO BEAUTIFUL
THAT YOU MUST SEE IT TOO
HOLY LIFE ALL ALONG THE TRAIL
IT IS TIME FOR ME TO SAY
GOOD NIGHT BEFORE IT IS LIGHT AGAIN
THERE IS MORE TO LIFE
IN A GOOD MORNING
He filled the lantern, lit the wick,
It was so still he heard the tick
Of the small death-watch in the wall.
It didn’t seem Christmas Eve at all,
The house was empty as a shell,
His grownup sons had turned out well
And gone for good. Their mother lay
Outdoors now by night and day.
He took the lantern, got his pail,
Took his coat down from its nail,
And went out through the frosty shed.
Christmas was gone clean out of his head,
It was one milking time the more.
The milking stool was by the door.
He swung the door and raised his light,
And entered the midst of Christmas night.
Four damp legs and two big eyes
Tottered to meet him, friendly-wise,
Between the eyes as soft as silk
There was a star as white as milk
On the new young being there
Standing and staring its first stare.
A cow had been ahead of the mark,
Had come to her time there in the dark.
The man put down his light and knelt,
It might have been a child he felt,
The hair on the thin thing was so fine
To feel of in the lantern’s shine.