A Sunday Doxology
Praise to the Creator of all—
You fill the skies with birds that sing
and swoop and dive and flit and swim,
but can’t sow or reap or build barns
yet feast on abundant goodness
because you care for each of them.
Of how much more value are we
who walk and work and till the ground,
we who live and move and have breath
because you breathed in us your life,
and ever mindful of us, you
set eternity in our hearts
that we might ever sing your praise
and feast at your table of grace.
This poem didn’t make it from my writing notebook to this space yesterday like it was supposed to. Something else interrupted. It was an important something. So today I’ll post two poems – unless important things interrupt again.
What I noticed today:
a giant moon tucking itself away
clouds leisurely floating through the day
birds making time for play
In a world floundering in fear and dismay
I just needed to notice peace today.
First there was sunshine, spreading warmth with rich generosity
then there was a puddle, not too deep, beneath a spreading willow tree.
Then the clients swooped in like a —well, exactly like a flock of excitable Redpolls.
The spa rotation was simple and chaotic:
– pre-warming on willow branch of choice (loosen up with wing stretches)
– puddle-time (include frenzied wriggling, splashing, dipping for optimum benefits)
– post-warming on willow branch again (perfect for extensive deep-preening, fluffing, feather-setting)
Rotate. Rotate again and again and again
until every speck of cold and dark and winter is cleaned from every feather
until every drudgery of the day is bathed in utter delight.
A Saturday Caesura
Working at home under self-isolation guidelines made for a quiet week. No bells. No hallway bedlam. No whispery undercurrent while I’m expounding the rules of subject-verb agreement. No bursts of laughter. No heated discussions. Just the ding dings of incoming mail and messages, my own voice the clatter of a Chromebook keypad.
Into this world of disrupted sound, I pause to listen. A train bellows its warnings (always 4 times). The neighbour’s broken-muffler car rumbles my sleep. Coyotes yelp at nothing and everything. Birds flutter and gossip at the feeder; geese honk on-the-wing. Water drip drips from the eaves, a gentle affront to the freezing silence of winter.
Into this percussion of life beyond isolation, I pause to play my piano (2 times), and the notes falter and trip, having endured their own long season of winter. My fingers search for a voice frozen by grief, hurt, discouragement. It’s a soft voice, hardly more than a pianissimo drip drip, but it is there and maybe spring will thaw this silence, too.
Dust, debris, birds, bags,
all boarded free flights
courtesy of WestWind.
(One way tickets east only)
Trees, flags, grass, hair
waved and waved and waved
goodbye, so long,
enjoy the ride.
There once was an eagle so mighty and free
who built a fine mansion high up in a tree
but along came a goose
who did quickly deduce
that a house with a view would suit to a tee
The wind swept in all gusty and blustery
and trees danced while snow deliquesced
and puddles stretched while ditches ran
and the birds, the whimsical birds,
flapped, played acrobat
I savour their giddy delight.
To the God who makes
resplendent white swans navigate
across skies cerulean blue,
soft grey collared doves preen and coo
in trees rough umber-brown,
rusty-yellow pine grosbeaks dress
in feathers impossibly delicate,
be all glory and majesty, praise and honour.