Wednesday, July 14, 2010


Does our world, our solar system,
Speak to God in its own way?
Do stones cry out, as once was said,
Or does it whisper every day?

Birds rise up, a pointing finger,
Lazy, languid, in the violet cold
Beneath the rubber eraser pink
Beneath dawn's crown of gold.

Spiky pine and feathery oak
Loom like waiting lion twins.
The branches are their gilded manes,
Tugged and tossed by tweaking winds.

Breath of water, halo of heaven--
Morning is the planet's prayer.
Footsteps fall bare and silently.
Sacred pervades the very air.

No comments:

Post a Comment