Chicken Feather Romance

I say,

How can you not see the

Romance

In scrubby bushes

And chicken feathers?

Isn’t all of life

Romance?

You just have to look at it that way.

Who needs moonlit walks

And candle-lit dinners

When you can find

Romance

In chickens and dirt?

There is a

Big-picture romance

That cannot happen

Without both

The seaside bungalows

And

The dust and bird scat-

Those who love and live the latter

Will taste the romance

Sweeter

And find blessing

Beyond compare.

And what if there

Are two little pairs

Of bare feet

Running in the dust,

Running through the

Scrubby bushes and the

Feathers—

Innocent, dirty little feet—

And one pair is white

And one is brown

And both are scrubbed

By me everyday

And put into little shoes

On Sunday

And run through

 My kitchen

Leaving little

Muddy footprints

That I clean up?

What if I scrub

These twenty toes

And a hundred more

And love every one of them

Because each

Is my precious gift

To watch grow out

Of a dozen shoe sizes

And become the

Beautiful feet

That bring good news.

To touch a heart—

To touch a life—

To touch a people;

This is my dream.

Big dreams come

In a thousand little pieces

The ordinary,

The extraordinary,

The miraculous

And the mundane.

If a snapshot of a dream

Is chickens

And children

And dirt

Then

Bird scat

Diapers

Sweeping

Must all be

Very romantic

It’s part

Of the greatest

Romance—

A savior wooing

His bride

Drawing His people

To Him.

And I say,

How can you not see

Romance

In scrubby bushes

And  chicken feathers?

(c) 2012 Breana Franks