(leaves as Essence. flowers as Reminder. fruit as Gift.)
I walked along our street one day.
A century-old house peered down at me grumpy and settled-in
crumbling just enough to be beautiful.
The sidewalk stones buckled
buckling from the slow-determined pressure of sprawling oak roots.
Clover and daffodil greens fold out of the earth
obstinate in their assurance of upcoming warmth.
Crawling vines thrust forward their red bursting berries
or their small hard ones —
proud of their fullness or their promise of fullness —
or their delicate white flowers —
shy and fragile and childlike or fragrant and alluring —
both coaxing the world ever nearer.
Tiny trumpets of purple flowers below remind me of taller, drooped petals I just passed.
I recognize the wisdom of these small ones,
and the relative dumbness of the venerable oak, who I love.
The grasses whisper their status in the grand order of things —
much higher than mine —
and evince it by reaching up to me, supporting my heavy step on the path
allowing me to crush them to death as they sigh in unwavering devotion
anything for you
Yellow petals scatter at my feet, and I stand, momentarily shy in the light of their adoration.
I take note of outstretched branches,
marveling at what they give me and wondering how I can get more.
I feel worshiped and blessed and kissed by the green still ones and feel worthy.
The trees, in their silent jubilation, cry out to me
come come my beautiful
every step is hallowed and perfect
we lay at your feet
in service to you
The trees, in their silent jubilation, cry out to each other
to soon devour such a magnificent thing
Every root every tendril bears me home.
The lavender perfumes the air.
The brown leaves rush in anticipation of my arrival.
blessed blessed they cry
holy holy holy
forever we have worshiped
forever we will worship
you flawless exquisite
morsel of God.