Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”


OK, it’s still February and still technically winter.  But Spring deserves lots of celebration (and anticipation), especially when you have to wait as long for it as I did in the middle seventies when I was living north of Chicago.  The seasons were made to speak to us of spiritual realities.  And so we have:




There is in Nature a strange ability

Given to the first young leaves in Springtime

To catch and hold the golden, streaming sunlight

And slowly release it back into the morning.

Each then becomes a burning tongue of fire,

Glowing green with oak or elm impatience

To get on with its summer occupation

Of turning into tree the soil and water

Sent up by roots, those ever-stretching branches

That search as far beneath the soil for water

As those above seek in the sky for sunlight.

These flame-tongued leaves are also tongues for speaking.

Are they moved by, or do they more, the breezes

That fan out, gently heralding the Springtime?

At any rate, it’s sure they pass the message.

From South to North, from tree to tree, they whisper,

“Awaken, for the Spring is surely coming!”

And slowly northward, like a swelling sea-wave,

Gently flows the glad rebirth of Nature.

God made her thus; so ‘twas no accident

That first by tongues of fire the message spread

That Man could be reborn—that Death was dead!


Remember: for more poetry like this, go to and order Stars Through the Clouds!  Also look for Reflections from Plato’s Cave, Williams’ newest book from Lantern Hollow Press: Evangelical essays in pursuit of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty.


Donald T. Williams, PhD