Sunday Psalm

Slip off your shoes,

before the dew

distills the

spirit of this day.


Stroll the field

for evidence

between your toes,

wet blades sewing.


Cup your ears,

to hear the sun

paint the top

of the sycamore.


Praise with the white

of your teeth,

head bowed

to the forest floor.


Find breath in your bones,

marrow reaching,

flowing to the sea,

to the sea.

The Nature of Things.

It is good to be sitting out,

reading aloud to the birds.

Some listen, some fly,

chattering in continuance,


except the fat robins,

who hop quietly on

greening grass to stab

the soil for living food.


Birds seem to like poetry.

They perch on line breaks,

and fly along the cadence

of syllables as on a windscape.


I close the book and listen

to their poetic rhythm.

They, in their sanctuary,

worshipping responsively.