How different it is to love God
in the backyard where I lift
my eyes to the dew on white pine
needles — each drop one of God’s eyes.
Different from sitting in an intimate chapel
or a God-sized cathedral with sunlight
painting us in colors from saint-stained
windows. Yes, I’ve been deeply struck
by a pipe organ’s thundering chords,
felt God vibrating through my flesh.
And now, here at the forest’s floor,
the whisper of a breeze awakens
the wind chimes in a whimsical hymn
with no words I can learn or tune
to hum. Nor do I strive to.
A half-grown fawn slips like a vision
between juniper and honeysuckle —
a sermon proclaiming nothing
and everything about resurrection.
The downy woodpecker’s clicking
search for sustenance serves
as benediction. As amen.
God, I thank the Church
for so many words —
for praise, for blessed, for sacred.
And I thank the woods
for daily teaching me
the ever-changing, everlasting prayer
of no words whatsoever.
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