Honeysuckle

As the morning sun blesses the treetops, the honeysuckle outside my office window remains in shadow. Bare branches tremble as a sparrow flits among them and plucks a red berry from a green-leafed branch.

From the firepit in our backyard, the honeysuckle looks full of green leaves. From the flower garden in our front yard, the honeysuckle's dead branches are hidden by a huge blue spruce.

But from my office window, I see into the heart of the honeysuckle. I see the red berries hiding beneath green leaves, and I see the dead wood.

That old honeysuckle is a lot like me. So much of what I produce is nothing but wooden rhetoric, straw destined for burning, but by God's grace the occasional red berry grows.