The leaves of trees are still,
still from no windy breeze,
shimmering in the sunlight’s white shadow
off the restless, rippling river.
I’m thinking about the boughs that just touch the water,
wondering, might they affect the ebb and flow of all matter?
Will the day set softly with sylvan swells
off a happy boat’s wake?
The evening news is hard to take,
Russia has poisoned another sacrificial goat,
America seems not to take note.
Will we choose another leader to help us navigate this world theatre?
Will the seas spill over the sloppy lips of the shores?
Will we sink or swim amidst the ocean’s roar?
Will we bake or shake in a tulmultuous earthquake?
The Covid count keeps mounting as California’s dusky orange and burning.
And I worry my worry beads,
hoping to find something of worth
in this hoarded mess we call Earth.
In this state of fall from grace in space,
I cry, Dear God, have you just begun?
is there an end to this saga to be sung?!?
Will we be blessed with the light of
insight of our plight?
All our dragon’s hoards
are not where God is stored,
He is one and He is all!
He’s that ‘guy’ you know who to call,
sing the angels over the curling falls.
Float downhill into tomorrow
on a dugout canoe that your best buddy borrowed,
softly sweep through the just turning trees reflections,
deep within the angels holy meditations,
He’s in the math of one and one is one,
within the conjoining of two souls.
God’s in the intention of the sticks
upon the cymbals and the drums!
He draws you of out of the old ho-hum, ho-hum.
In the seeds of an empathic thought,
God’s in an understanding hard fought.
He’s in the spark that starts the soul,
in the gift of the right to know.
He’s in the peace of His embrace,
within the water chestnut’s lace,
giving us a state of grace!
Holy! Holy! Holy is this place!