Thursday of the Fourth Week of Lent
Bless the Lord, all you angels of the Lord.
Sing his glory and praise forever.
My prayers are dry in all this rain and mist. A few slips of snow strewn over the fields, fewer words in my heart. The silences I am wrapped this morning still my soul, my mind, allowing for the insignificance of self outside the Lord. It is a long loneliness shackled with pride. I kick at slimy leaves that were once a soft-pedaled green and full of light: the making of nourishment in their secret veins; a bright singing lifted up to the Lord God, simply and ordinarily as if nothing miraculous was transpiring at all. Oh, that I would turn my prayers toward His luminosity singing and sing.
Late Winter Breeze Through Oak Trees
These old leaves stun and sound
a gently rolling creek
in their congregation’s susurrations
over my lingering.
These tethered swaying
were urgent once
and fierce in their appetites
now dangling parchments
sounding water arias;
of what becomes
of the multitudinous,