He pressed a rounded stone into my hand.
He said, "Take care of this," and turned away
To tend to things we needed for our trip:
The boats, the lines, the paddles, and the rest.

The stone was not like those about my feet.
I wondered at the stone, but not for long.
I put it in my pocket and forgot.

The Huzzah winds along a valley floor
Between thick stands of trees and rocky bluffs.
Its water is a marvel to behold,
Like crystal ichor flowing in God's veins.
I thought of all these things, and not the stone,
But in my pocket it was safe and sound.

And that was well, for when we came ashore
My uncle asked me for the rounded stone.
He placed it on the bank beside its twin.

"As easy as it was for you," he said,
"To bring this back to where I picked it up,
So light you sit within your Maker's hand.
The stone was not aware you carried it,
And sometimes we are just the same. But He
Is wise, and kind, and big and strong enough
To bring you safely to your journey's end.
We're going where we came from." So he said.

I miss him, but I know we'll meet again.

I hear
All the old things
Calling with sweet voices.
I didn’t think I missed them, but
I did.

When I was young, I’d disassemble clocks
So I could understand what made them go.
With tools in hand, and pieces in a box,
I’d wonder, and I’d look, and then I’d know.
But lacking tools to take myself apart,
I understand myself through what I’m told,
And one friend told me I am young at heart—
Another said my soul is very old.
If I can trust them both (I think I can),
Then I have been—repaired, or else restored.
Is it sometimes the lot of broken man
To go back to the workshop of the Lord?
     Some say that Great Clockmaker stands aloof,
     But I know otherwise—and I’m the proof!

Upon this ancient hickory, there is a blaze of blue.
To guess the meaning of this paint is more than I can do.
It does not seem to mark a trail; there are no other signs,
And blue is not the proper hue to mark one’s boundary lines.
What errand was the painter on? Who made this mark, and why?
And who can follow where he led?
Can anyone?
Can I?

I swore I’d keep in touch with you—
I crossed my heart and hoped to die.
I meant it, so it was no lie,
But as you know, it wasn’t true.

The fires are out; the lamps are snuffed.
The door is locked; I've done enough.
I give my house and all my pelf
To God Almighty, who Himself
Will keep it safe or let it go.
The future is not mine to know.
And as 'twas said by God's own Son,
"Lord, not my will, but Thine be done."

To the Class of 2018

In times uncertain, ask your truest friends
For counsel, and take all they say to heart—
But know that we are bound for different ends,
And none but you can learn and play your part.
Some friend may say, “To thine own self be true,”
But “thine own self” is not a thing of stone.
And who can say what time will do to you?
Reflect, and you will see how you have grown
And changed, from year to year and day to day,
In ways, perhaps, that only you can see;
We’ve gathered here to send you on your way,
And only you can say what that will be.
     Be hungry for whatever lies in store,
     And make it greater than what came before.

The talking heads will babble
And weigh you down with trouble
And fill you with dismay,
But do not heed the pundits
For trouble has its limits
And Love can win the day.

For Love, dear friend, is stronger
Than hatred, greed, or anger,
And more to be revered
Than wisdom, wealth, or courage—
Than power, strength, or knowledge—
And never to be feared.

It won’t be comprehended;
It cannot be demanded,
Yet it is free to all.
It wears the oldest mantle,
And though its mien is gentle,
Its subjects are in thrall.

For Love is God’s own essence!
To Love we owe obeisance,
And how can we refuse?
So be you saint or sinner,
Take up Love’s splendid banner
And go and spread the news.

Go forth and love your neighbors!
Go fan the dormant embers!
It has been said before:
That Love, dear friend, is stronger
Than prejudice or anger
And Love must win the war.

This life we hold so dear is but a loan.
For good or ill, its balance must be spent,
For life is not a thing that we can own.

The wasting of our fragile flesh and bone
Is not within our power to prevent.
This life we hold so dear is but a loan—

But brevity of life, which some bemoan,
Should but lend urgency to what is lent,
For life is not a thing that we can own.

Remember what you planted—what has grown?
It comes of what you’ve done, not what you meant.
This life we hold so dear is but a loan—

You cannot reap what you have never sown!
Waste not another day! Turn and repent,
For life is not a thing that we can own.

Spend life on those you love, or die alone—
And wonder, at the end, where it all went!
This life we hold so dear is but a loan,
For life is not a thing that we can own.

A well-worn game trail,
Long used by deer and rabbits,
Has been rudely blocked

By an old cedar.
Time and disease wasted it
And its roots gave way.

See, here, what is left
Of its long, feathered branches:
Spikes, long as my hand!

The deer do not mind,
For their legs are long enough
To step over it.

But the poor rabbits—
See by their tracks, here, and here—
Must all turn aside.

For it is too tall
To safely leap over it.
Look: one of them tried.

His blood stains this branch,
Dry, but still brilliant crimson,
In a wreath of fur.

What was chasing him?
He thought, on the open trail,
He could outrun it.

Perhaps he could have,
Were it not for this blockade.
What a wicked end!

And just to this side
The trunk is bare of branches.
He could have made it.

He missed by inches
And paid for it with his life.
Look before you leap.

By what right do I take your life today?
Your flesh and blood are not unlike my own.
The same Hand made us both, and gave to you
More grace of form and motion than to me.
It is by reason of that grace you live
Not only in the forests of this world,
But also in the hearts and minds of men—
In history, in legend, and in song.

Your name was often on King David’s lips—
But then again, he sang of hunters too.
And many generations earlier,
God said to Noah that all moving things
Were food for man—and after David’s time,
He spoke to Peter, saying, “****, and eat!”

By what right does the wolf feed on your kind?
By what right does the cat devour the bird?
To live is to be hungry, and if you
Had fangs and claws, you would not feed on grass.

If honor is a thing that you can know,
I hope that you will see some honor in
The great pains I must take to bring you down.
There is no wrath or greed in what I do.
We must all die someday, and I will strive
To make this death the best one you could have—
And you, as all your ancestors have done,
Will live on in the hearts and minds of men.

Your life will nourish mine, and I will try,
As I have always done, to live a life
Deserving of what God has given me.
And now, farewell—I send you to your rest.

Alone in the woods,
I rest and smoke my cob pipe—
But am I alone?
Wreaths of white smoke surround me;
The forest seems full of wraiths.

Since dawn
I've been sitting
In this boat, eagerly
Longing for the line's twitch that says
"Breakfast!"

To know you is to love you.
What a blessing it is
That you are mine!
While I breathe, I am yours.

To know you is to love you.
I know you better than anyone,
And so I love you in equal measure.
I’ll love you still more, someday.

Every day I see more clearly
What a blessing it is
That my soul is bound to yours
With links forged in Heaven.

Not a day goes by
That I don’t thank God
That you are mine
To have and to hold.

I don’t know where life will lead,
But I know who will go with me.
Whatever else may happen,
While I breathe, I am yours.

When evening finds me on some wooded rise,
Or else the level ground along a stream,
A heaviness descends upon my eyes
And Nature takes the semblance of a dream.
For I have known a peace beyond repose,
In rest unlike the comfort of a bed.
Though some men's brows are furrowed while they doze,
The woodsman's sleep is like that of the dead.
Go find a spot beneath the open sky,
And drape the night like blankets 'round your form!
The ground will be the couch where you will lie;
Though it be cold, the campfire-hearth is warm.
     Recline at ease in Mother Nature's arms,
    And be surrendered to her Morphean charms.

To the Class of 2021

The time is now at hand; the bow is bent
To shoot you forth across the open sky.
And as you think on what these years have meant,
You may know where you wish to land, and why.
Or else you may believe you hold the bow;
An arrow cannot aim itself for flight.
You’ve chosen paths to take; I hope you know
Their ends are far beyond our power of sight.
Some days, the way before you will seem bleak;
Pursuit of happiness is arduous.
Persist—and you will find the joy you seek.
Please don’t forget to send some back to us.
We’ll miss you so much more than we can tell,
But we are proud to bid you all farewell.