Choral susurration of the brook
antiphony of songbirds
The lingering green of summer’s end
turning to autumnal vestments of gold, russet and brown
woven of nature’s homespun
The cathedral vault stretches overhead in unblemished blue
no doves, but snow white butterflies
The fierce glory of the sun upon my shoulders
I lift my face for His holy kiss
The old tree raises crooked, silvered arms in praise
stripped of all finery
leaves and bark, a fine interlacing of new growth
Its long perished abundance reduced
except in its many-fingered expression of adoration to the sun above
Alone of its kind, like the humble sinner among the saints
The pine spires rise above him in unassuming dignity
They too remain when the worshipper – and the oblivious – pass on
The road through the cloistered hills
that leads me back into the world
Beautiful. I love reading your poetry - and I wish we lived closer so I could hear you read it aloud! One of Jonathan's and my favorite memories was listening to you read poetry. :) Was it George Herbert?
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