In spring these spangled woods
are raucous with birds,
O sing a new song unto the Lord,
and the trees try on their prints and florals
before summer’s solids,
open my lips and my mouth will declare your praise,
their shades and kinds of green,
the lime and lemon greens,
russets and ochres,
handing out their devotional leaflets,
let my prayers rise before you,
the oaks opening their little umbrellas,
the beeches their praying hands,
the blossoming trees scattering confetti
among the chanting peepers and
ferns unfurling the scroll of the Word,
let every living thing praise you.
And you, wanderer, are no less a part
of this burgeoning world,
this myriad of unfoldings,
I try to count them—they are more than the sand,
this world in its glorious becoming.
___________________
Weather Report
Developing,
as a front of freedom and delight
brings divine brainstorming
in the inward regions,
clearing, as time passes,
into all of who you are.
—May 8, 2017