Haven’t wondered about Heaven
since Sunday school’s cold
pearly gates and alabaster walls
seemed drab by comparison,
and the blinding shine of silver
and gold eternities much too bright
even for the pure. Out of dust
and dirt we rise, generations
personified in living colors.
We need not preach poetry
or pray for more than what’s
before us full with awe—
small enough to see through
purple stems of Wild Hyacinth
on green, on gray—I believe.
drycrikjournal 
beautiful words and photo
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Thanks, Gill 🙂
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I think my part of heaven will look more like your photo, but I don’t worry too much about it as I know it will be wonderful beyond my imagining.
janet
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Thanks Janet, the wildflowers give us a good place to start imagining 🙂
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Your words and photograph are beautiful John 🙂
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Thank you, Jane, a moment worth trying to capture.
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God, give me a faith that’s ‘small enough to see through’ . . . I’ll ask for nothing more . . . Beautiful and Beautiful!
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To be susceptible to awe, becoming small — thanks, Peter.
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You can’t imagine the longing this photo creates in me. Somewhere in Lonesome Dove is a quote that goes something like this, “perhaps when we die we just go back to wherever we were happiest”. That would be me, in those flowers, in that place.
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Thanks for the paraphrased quote, it works for me.
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One of the great benefits of making a living off the land is that sometimes the land gives you gifts beyond all counting in return for nothing.
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True, but you have to get out there to see it. I am reminded of a quote attributed to Tom Homer and repeated often by my father, ‘He looks, but just don’t see.’ So much is in the eye of the beholder.
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