When the Spirit's around - that's the third of the Three -
He regularly raises fresh questions for me:

You see , He's both the sought and the seeker, the truth and the teacher
the help and the helper, the gift and the giver.

He's the breath and the voice, the chooser, the choice
the anointer, the oil, the peace and turmoil.

He's the joy and the cries, always there to baptise
the bearer of fruit with fresh gifts to boot.

He's as wild as the wind, He'll breeze where He will
I've tried to contain Him, but He won't remain still.

I can't ever define Him, can't assign Him a label,
just accept He's my God and that my God is able

to be true to His Word while resisting defining
He'll still leave me questions, but that's not surprising.

He kicked off creation, gave the church her fresh start
and we're just the latest to play our small part.

A book was given,
but the man cannot read.
Another can read,
but cannot understand.
A book of secrets,
in a plain tongue.
A strange tongue given,
secrets revealed.

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

               Last Sunday after Pentecost

A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer

The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky

Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds

Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.