On Sundays
After the sermon is preached
The cover is back on the piano
I pray
Slowly
Deliberately
Not with words
Not with a book
Or a pen
Not even my journal
But with my breath
In the woods
With my body
My palms touch the rough bark
Of oaks, maples
The softness of
Birches and sycamores
I flip my hand over
Their touch soothes
Oneness – bound together
In our
Breathing
Praying
The wind comes
And the wind goes
She shakes the leafless crowns
They wave; I pray
Sunshine streams
Into the forest
Woodpeckers
And Blue jays
Shimmer in the light
Messengers – angels
“He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.”[1]
A flash of red
A Cardinal, invites me
To be present
To acknowledge the ground
Of my being; and being grounded
Hummus -- home
Salt Creek
moves quickly
Months of snow
And rain
And ice
Run free -- the source
Of this life
Remember, be thankful
Paws caked in mud
And on my knees
The dogs and me
Listen attentively
As the tiny Chickadee
Leads us in prayer
No words
Only our breath
Only our bodies
Being held by the land
“Who knows me,
Even when I’m lost.”
On Sundays I pray
With the wild ones
No words
No books
Only my body
And their bodies
In Love's embrace
[1] Have you ever wondered why it is easier for us to believe in an invisible devil created in our image than it is to believe that birds and beasts can speak to us?
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