Lac Philippe and Snow
by Regiena Heringa
Young pieces of ice jostle and pull each other forward to the shoreline while a few fish, preparing for winter sleep, curve through the last straggle of water weed. In utmost silence, flakes of snow, holy and white, drop down into the dark wet of the land, close to where I sit on a slice of granite, pink and ancient.
I think of God’s fingers. They create such beauty, spinning sacred light into elegant forms of intelligence and love!
I think of the many eyelids that open and close to a world that is shifting, a world that is tilting.
I hear the rippling of a thousand voices singing in the snowy sky and know that each devotional note is God who gathers us up like Christmas boughs for the crib, and gently carries us home.
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