The glory of winter is its bare simplicity:
The freshly pruned fruit tree glows in shallow light,
Concentrating its energy to swell the bud.
Like an athlete trim and trained it is prepared
For its coming season.
Disciples too submit to pruning.
Cut away cross purposes that slowly develop,
Ill-conceived attachments that won’t bear up,
Dead wood destined to never thrive again,
Profuse clutter that saps and stunts growth,
Spent but never taken fruit no longer wholesome.
With sharp tools reshape
The very structure of the frame toward vitality.
There will be wounds slow to heal,
There will be diminishment of size and scope.
But soon each limb will share in purpose,
Cleanly withstanding storm,
Supporting heavy fruitfulness.
Beautiful poem by our Oblate Rob Wilson (2021) in time for Lent and spring.