July 26, 2008


Seasons of Life



Death draws near to the season
as another cycle of the fruits
of the earth is passing.

Old age is upon the year . . .

Spring time is birth time,

the time of quickening –

summer is the time of growth,

of fullness –

autumn sees maturity,

ripeness, and passing –

and winter is death.

In the Mission’s valley
summer imperceptibly wanes.
The vanguards of autumn grow bolder
and Indian summer is upon the valley.

Hoarding the passing loveliness

of a season ending

and embracing the pleasant promises

of a season to come

is Indian summer.

The skies are the bluest
of the twelve months.
The early morns the fairest.
The perfumes of ripeness and harvest
are pleasant to smell.

The last days of a fruitful year
that is at the point to die,
are touched with a sweet sadness,
but they are lovely, lovely.

In the Mission’s valley
are those of venerable age
known as Granny,

or Aunt Bess,
or Uncle Tom,
or the old man,
or the old lady.

Their Indian summer is far spent.
Winter’s snow crowns their brows.
Growth is over, maturity finished,
ripeness has grown too mellow,
passing is at hand.

And yet these precious ones
are beautiful as never
in the springtime of life
or in the summer of life’s fullness.

Theirs the refined loveliness

of a season ending,

blessed with the holy promises

of the fuller life to come.

The last roses of summer

are the fairest –

the mellow smiles of God’s children
near long life’s end

are the sweetest.

George W. Jones
From the forthcoming book "Life's Journey".


Photos by Dan Hardison
Fall Creek Falls State Park, Tennessee


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July 12, 2008


In Assisi



These are the airs wherein he stood
And spoke the unrecorded words
That brought them fearless from the wood,
The timid hare, the settling birds,

That gathered round him in the sun,
Upon his shoulder, at his feet,
In easy friendliness with one
Whose language was their own and sweet

With syllables to quiet fear
And win the wild heart to his own . . .
Let us be still and listen, here,
And learn if any word or tone

May linger in the folds of air
So to instruct the heart and tongue,
That going hence, we go to bear
Love's language as a song were sung.

David Morton
From his book "Angel of Earth and Sky".


Photo by Dan Hardison
St. James Parish
Wilmington, North Carolina


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July 5, 2008


Ghosts in the Mountains



Ghosts dwell in these mountains –
drifting from the valleys,
riding the ridges,
climbing the peaks.

Mysteriously appearing
they silently drift along
forever changing then
suddenly disappearing.

And when it seems these mountains
have made all about them clear
the ghosts return to shroud
the mountains in mystery again.

Some say it is just a mist,
a haze that covers these mountains.
But then . . .

Perhaps there is some great secret
that must be kept hidden –
something these mountains
do not want seen.

Yes . . .
ghosts dwell in these mountains.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Balsam, North Carolina


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