These have I loved:
the scattering promise of springtime sprouts in my wildflower garden;
the burbling waters of summer-lessened streams,
metallic-blue dragonflies zipping past ramrod straight cattails;
deep summer shade;
the musty smell of an old book, its thick, browning pages 
steadfastly preserving the author’s words
whether deserving of such honor or not;
well-earned rivulets of sweat streaking down one’s cheek 
after a spell of honest labor;
dusty brown feet sunk into the warm, soft dirt of a well-tended garden;
the triumph of pulling up a dandelion, its root completely intact;
an intriguing story;
old hymns sung in wobbling harmony by an age-burnished choir;
stained glass windows and the kaleidoscopic colors 
rendered by filtered sunlight;
short sermons;
old cemeteries, moss-covered tombstones with 
names scrubbed illegible by centuries of wear, 
family plots delineated with tired sagging fences;
curls of wood shavings, the crisp pitch scent released 
by newly planed pine boards;
antique woodworking tools with handles smoothed by 
generations of artisanal use;
well-brewed coffee and warmed almond croissants;
freshly churned buttermilk;
fresh baked bread;
a full recycling bin rolled to the curb;
unexpected blessings of chance, such as spotting a 
praying mantis ootheca just as its tiny residents emerge 
to face their next stage of life;
combing my fingers through the luxuriant undercoat 
of my fluffy white spitz; 
his generous smile as he greets my returns home;
stink eye glares from condescending cats;
time spent with my daughters, the delight of witnessing the loving, 
thoughtful women they have grown into;
grandchildren playing contentedly on a toy-scattered floor;
the smell of a newborn’s silky-soft head;
warm evenings, rocking chairs on the back deck, 
a curiously formed piece of wood to whittle…

All these have been my loves.