Out-of-Season October

I am huddled under heather-purple wool, writing about the darkness of fall and the sadness of all these hurricane-stripped trees, when little Ivy (always green) pops in the door of the camper with a handful of forget-me-nots.

Where in this browning world did you find spring blooms?

And she smiles and tells me about a giant cement tunnel and a stream, “You know, THE stream” (but I don’t), and her brother fills out the geographical details, and I nod, knowing, and send him for one of my tiny bottle vases.

I take tender shoots in hand, look at happy yellow centres, like suns in miniature, adored by five (or six – one blossom has exceeded the standard) pale blue petals, open-faced to the end of October, with buds still about to burst like a May morning. 

To be sure, a giant tunnel is a mysterious place (portal to what other world?), but I had not expected this. Not in this past-the-frost remnant of autumn, which already feels like November, this colourless, storm-reeling island. Not this cheerful nosegay that even smells like spring. 

I inhale slowly, absorbing sweetness into my lungs, and the strangeness of this small, out-of-season sacrament. Our reckoning of time is not the only way to mark the meaning of days. 

Who is to say the source of deep-rooted signals sent to push this particular handful of blue into the view of one six year old on a Saturday ramble with dad, and bring it to me in the dimming light? 

I only know that I was, indeed, feeling forgotten, and now I’m not. 

~ Lindsey Gallant

The Glory of the June Ditch

The ditches declare the glory of God,
as if the sower emptied all his pockets here in a springtime ramble,
and his very footprints sprouted daisies in thanks,
all shouting “He loves me!” with glad, golden hearts.

And the rose whose dignity was sorely tried in January
now perfumes the edge of the old cow pasture,
unfurling the essence of June
and the secret of all who wait for their one true love.


Lindsey Gallant

God of Marsh Marigolds

God of Marsh Marigolds,

Stun us again with the yellow of spring,
the spread of an eagle’s wing,
and the tenacity of your good green life.

Crown us with dandelion wreaths and song,
woven threefold strong,
which in the morning your breath revives.

Hush us holy with the thrum of bee,
and the cherry tree
full-blossomed with the nectar that you bring. 


Lindsey Gallant


Blue Tractor Glory

On Tuesday I saw a man-boy turning the corner of our back road in a blue tractor, and there was glory in his sand-blonde hair.

For man is crowned with glory when he comes alive in his purpose, when the being given him begins to tremble and echo the particular Word that created him.

All of us are formed by a call and fingerprinted, and when we trace the Maker’s lines in us they become a one-and-only map to the telos – the end goal – of our being. 

And I saw that telos tumbling, radiating backward in the muscling of sun-strong arms, and God was laughing right out of his teenage mouth for the joy of a spring ploughed field and a barn going up all sticky and sweet and new.

Higher than the angels, that boy is, and he drives into the western sun and I wave in a kind of awe at the weight of it all. 


Lindsey Gallant


Resurrection Eyes

Give me resurrection eyes
to see the light of your dawning
and by this beam in my eye to see all else

Let me view every speck of existence
through the dancing gleam of your presence
lit and lifted by invisible breath

Till every gaze is glazed with glory
in the horizon of the east
and you encompass all in your shining wake

seen at last in the window of your soul. 

~ Lindsey Gallant

Happy Easter! The Lord is risen!