Hymns of praise to You, O Creator God
Hymns of rain pattering on new leaves this morning,
of drips on the pond
and wind in the boughs,
the soft melodies of wood thrush and peewee
and raucous cries of blue jay and nuthatch,
of catbirds' murmuring musings and
tanagers' buzzy cadence.
Hymns of trucks in the distance,
their provision and the life within their cabs,
of a husband's footsteps on old wooden floors
and the teapot whistling in the kitchen,
of neighboring roosters' early crowing
and their hens' laying song.
Hymns of woodpecker's drilling
and their young's insistent squawks,
the whoosh of air beneath the vulture's wings
and the twang of the green frog's call,
of squirrels chattering
and the vixen's scream.
Hymns of praise to You, O Creater God,
Hymns that tune my heart to You.
Enfolded in the greens of yellow birch,
of shagbark hickory and beech,
the blackhaw thicket, newly
leafed out and blooming,
stands impenetrable.
For me anyway.
The hooded warbler singing
from within
has no trouble navigating
the tangle of twigs and branches,
feasting on insects
too tiny for me
to see.
His song I know,
but he moves unseen until,
momentarily flitting
into the open,
he is revealed,
brilliant yellow and black,
going about his business
unmindful of my
presence.
The northern waterthrush is
a different story.
He too sings,
teasingly,
leading me on
in anticipation and
hope,
to the next thicket,
the next turn in the path,
just out of reach
remaining invisible,
there but not
seen.
How like the realities buried
within me.
The unease disguised
as anger,
too frightening to face
head-on.
It hides and weaves
through the recesses
of my consciousness
until, finally,
following its movements,
I recognize the fear
that has given itself away.
And with that recognition,
acceptance.
The thickets have taught me
how to wait,
how to hold the
seen and the unseen,
how to hold what is
known and unknown,
and the freedom to dare to
haltingly,
trustingly,
hold them both.
Thanks be to God.
There are old stumps here,
relics of giants who used to
dot this neglected woodland.
And roads that have filled
in with trout-lilies and dwarf ginseng
and mayapples that
have spilled over from
the forest floor on either side,
a carpet as far as the eye can see.
Wood thrush and catbirds
have arrived, their songs the
blessing and benediction
of the day,
now joining the towhees
and house wrens
who arrived, and
staked out territory,
some days ago.
Set amid surrounding houses
and farms,
this old patch of woods is all
that remains of what once was,
an ancient-feeling sacred space,
an invitation into awe,
this secret garden, not made
by human hands.
