Frigid Winter Morn

Blankets of leaves blown like drifts of snow

Piled high against the modest hellebores,

The waking garden drowsy from long sleep

Reminds me of my life's unfinished chores.

What miracle of earth and sky appears

To greet these eyes but feasts of daffodils

That gladden one who long has lived with tears.

Now every nerve within the being thrills

To beauty on this frigid winter morn.

Once more a page in my book of life is turned

As I look upon the beauty of the lake,

A part of me still breathes the Ashram air,

But all is Hers and all She will remake.