The White Dove

I remember when they brought to me
The White Dove.
It seems so long ago—
Her eyes gazed up at me in
Innocence
-and a little bit of fear.
I smiled down
on the face of
the white dove.
And so began our long and tedious work. For
I
was
her
teacher.

I knew what lay before her in
The misty hills afar—
The burden would be heavy;
The distant shores would call.
Sometimes there was a struggle,
For the white dove yearned to be free.
But I would grasp her to me
And whisper words of peace—
And,
In time
Her wings grew stronger. At times
I saw that She would exceed me.
And yet still
It was not time—

Today, I stand on a precipice.
I hear
the smashing
waves
below my feet;
The mist rises up to encompass the beautiful
White Dove
and
me.

With outstretched arms—
I open my hands—
And watch the white dove
Soar—

Away on the breeze—

Deb Borkert

Spring's Song

Tho the earth be cloaked in snow,
A host of flowers sleeps below:
Crocus, tulips, daffodils
Will lift their heads in joyous reels.

One day soon the cardinal’s wing
Will fly your way and bid you sing
Of warmer days and leafy trees,
Of new turned soil upon the breeze

So, though the skies be dark and grey
And winter’s chills aren’t held at bay,
Remember just beneath the snow
Awaits a splendid floral show!

Deb Borkert
January 2007

In Defense of Literature

As long as there is story and people with the heart to tell them, hope will never end. For it’s in story we discover where we’ve been, who we are, and what we will become. The postmodernist would say that story means whatever the reader brings to it. I would say, no, that is not possible, exactly. Though we carry our worldview into a piece, we can never escape the author. For those spinners of tales who are the real storytellers will take us where they will, and we the reader often follow most blindly, as one led through a darkening maze. For, the joy of the journey is partly not knowing exactly where we’re going until we arrive.

This reading experience is not unlike an adventure we took several years ago. I was finishing a Master’s degree and our four children were compacted into the few years of middle and high school. One snowy spring day, we purchased a pop-up tent trailer, and as the children followed their whims and I studied for comps, Jay planned a three week summer vacation, revealing few details other than basic destinations.

Each day of our trip was new, not unlike the turning of a page. Was it the awe-inspiring locations? Was it the adventure of traveling early in the morning or late at night because the van wasn’t air conditioned? Or was it the surprise of the unknown? Jay had planned and charted this journey. The kids and I knew little more than names of places. So much of the fun were the surprises and twists. Would the sun setting over a placid sea been so breathtaking had we seen it before? Would the alcove of ferns been so special if it had not been so secluded? What of Mt. St. Helen’s? Sleeping on the banks of the Columbian River? Camping with cousins in Oregon? Meeting best friends in Yellowstone? The human soul relishes life and the wonder of it. And master storytellers take us there.

Grandparents and parents tell us what life used to be like. Poe takes us topsy-turvy through the troubled mind. Dickens slaps us with our communal sins. Dante takes us through Hell, and Tolkien, by way of Frodo Baggins, saves what little there is worth redeeming in this world. For, the storyteller is the author, and no one can match him. He knows the paths we tread, dropping intimations to quicken our steps. He takes us out of our world and our cares and brings us back again. As long as there are storytellers to lead the way, readers will follow. And if the author be good, and if he guides us well, we will be better people at the story’s end. Therein lies much hope.