The Church in the Wildwood
This blissfully beautiful Mother’s Day morning
I sit on an old picnic table “Church”
Pulled up into a clearing
Near the water’s edge.
The air is wet with an overnight shower,
The earth fragrant
With her latest Baptism.
Sun warms my skin
As he gently pears over the
Tops of the trees who are
So proudly dressed in
Their new spring leaves.
Hawks, geese, robins, ducks
And an orchestra of other unknown birds
Provide the Sunday morning
I close my eyes and offer up gratitude
For my life,
And ask the Divine to open me
To what is yet to unfold.
A proud mother duck
Arrives at the service
With her passel of ducklings – too many to count,
All very well behaved little young ones.
They follow her, dutifully and quietly.
I ask this great “cloud of witnesses”
To witness my past mistakes,
And to encourage me to use the them
To learn a better path.
I offer up those things that confuse me
And ask for enlightenment.
I pray for those I love
Who, crippled by aging bodies and minds,
Can no longer make it
Into the woods
For such fulfilling