After the doctors,
the tests, the lab reports,
the telephones, the waiting,

comes the gift
from the Giver who is constant,
the gift of quiet places.

A dusty lane in summer,
hemmed with chicory
and Queen Anne’s lace.

A brook, sun-shivered,
chattering of  stones,
kingfishers, fern and dragonflies.

A forest of white birch,
so deep and silent
the inner trees are ghosts.

Faces of those, loved and loving,
for whom you paint life
in brighter colors,

And peace within, gradual,
lingering, encompassing.