Iona Prayer

 

O God of ageless sea and sky,
of mountain crags
and hidden bogs
where steps are treacherous,
accompany us
in swirling winds
and the skylark's song.

O God of dunes and shifting sands
of wandering cattle 
and grazing sheep
who roam the shoreline,
accompany us
in salty fog 
and the swallow's flight.

O God of Columba
and ancient faith 
of those who followed,
where high crosses beckon
accompany us
amid remains
of what once was here.

Bless us, O God of then and now,
of old and new.
When the gulf seems wide
accompany us
in longings for the Mystery
that is You.

June's Promise

 

Stepping out my door on a June morning,
the pots overflowing with snapdragons and petunias
welcome me,

and I look to the gardens beyond.

All this was worth it, I think.
All the work of the last four years,
digging, planting,
replanting, weeding,
moving plants around until they were happy.
All the physical and mental work
of making a garden was worth it.

Like the stream that meanders through a pasture,
I wander the garden paths,

catching the peony's scent 
and the breeze's whisper on my cheek.
Beardtongue sways with the bumblebees
and honey bees feed
in the comfrey and the catmint.
Beebalm stands at attention, a landing pad for fireflies
and the sweetspire and arrowwood are in bloom,
taking their turns in the garden's long offering
of provision.

Catbirds nest in the hazelnut,
chattering all the while.
House wrens chortle in the blackhaw
and titmice and Carolina wrens belt out
dueling variations on the same tune.
Barn and tree swallows twitter overhead
and ruby-throats zip from columbine to coral bells.
Green frogs glunk in the pond 
while baby bunnies sit still as statues in the grass.

I did not create this garden.
I set the plants in the ground
and they took it from there.
Plants are promiscuous beings, 
spreading their progeny where they will.
Creatures are the the recipients 
of this generous smorgasbord.
It was planted with them in mind.

Summer Guests

Barn swallows fly warily
into the old barn
wings fluttering,
voices twittering,
searching for a safe space
to place their nest.

A beam over the goat pen
will do.

Day by day
carrying mud and grass
they shape a perfect cup
to hold their young.

Tree swallows zip boldly
above the meadow
chattering,
hawking insects,
searching for a cavity
to build their nest.

The hanging gourd behind the barn
will do.

Day by day

carrying fine field grass
and feathers
they craft a downy bowl
to raise their young.

Swallows visit for such a short season.

While they are here
we share
each other's world.

Holding the Whole World

 

The wars drag on and the horrors 
I can do nothing to relieve.

Yet catbirds are building a nest in the hazelnut
I planted outside my window.

The climate changes faster than we can keep up,
causing suffering I can do nothing, single handedly, to allay.

Yet red-wing blackbirds are raising a family
atop the arrowwood in our hedgerow.

The rains did not come to southern Africa this year,
bringing hunger I can do nothing to mitigate.

Yet mockingbirds gorge 
on serviceberries in the front yard.

I urge my representatives to intervene in the world's needs
but their responses I cannot control.

Yet tree swallows are nesting in the gourd
I hung behind the barn.

I donate to relief organizations
but in the neediest areas aid does not get through.

Yet hummingbirds sip from columbine
and beardtongue in the back garden.

I grieve for all the changes I cannot bring
to the wide world.

Yet I am grateful for the all the changes
that I can.

Listen with Your Heart

This is my favorite poem, but I did not write it. It was written by Edna Jaques and I came across it in a British magazine while living in Botswana long ago. The pictures are from Kurt's Appalachian Trail hike in 2022.

Go out, go out, I beg of you,
and taste the beauty of the wild.
Behold the miracle of earth
with all the wonder of a child.
Walk hand in hand with nature's God
where scarlet lilies brightly flame.
Make footprints in the virgin sod
by some clear lake without a name.

Listen not only with your ears,
but make your heart a listening post.
Travel above the timber line,
make fires along some lonely coast.
Breathe the high air of snow-crowned peaks,
taste fog and kelp and salty tides.
Go pitch your tent among the pines
where golden sun and peace abides.

Follow the trail of moose and deer,
the wild goose on her lonely flight,
savor the fragrance of the wild,
the sweetness of a northern night.
Drink deep of distance, rest your eyes
where centuries of peace have lain.
And let your thoughts go winging out
beyond the realm of man's domain.

Lay hold upon the out of doors
with soul and heart and seeking brain.
You'll find the answer to all life
held in the sun and wind and rain.
Where'er you walk by land or sea
the page is clear for all who seek
if you will listen with your heart,
and let the voice of Nature speak.

               Edna Jaques

Fleeting

 

We waited all winter for signs of life,
skunk cabbage poking through the muck,
the eastern phoebe's song,
the red maple's crimson cloud.

And now spring is here,
the early garden swiftly morphing 
from bare ground and fallen leaves
into rosy bleeding hearts and creeping phlox,
golden ragwort and bellwort,
and Jacob's ladders' delicate blues.

We waited so long for what is too soon over.
Ephemeral beauty beckons,
inviting us into the moment.
Gifted by what we cannot control,
is this not grace? 

Solace

 

How can so much noise feel like silence?

Not the noise of tractor trailers in the distance

or the pickup trucks speeding up and down our road

or the beeping backhoes at the neighbor's construction site, 

but the juncos' trilling 
and the white-throats' sweet whistle.

Even the guttural songs of the blackbirds in the hayfield
and the red-bellieds on the old stump,
the pileateds' one-note call
and the blue jays' raucous percussion
play their part in the vernal ensemble.

No longer the bare tangle of winter,
the hedgerow is dressed in lace, 
every twig sprouting miniature leaves.

The serviceberries stand as sentries,
white blossoms floating against the sky
and the raspberries' green foliage a foil
for the blackhaw's russet hue.

Cardinals forage for withered berries
and the brown thrasher chortles atop the hornbeam,
pausing only long enough to dodge the mockingbird
who patrols the hedgerow as his own.

I am weary this morning,
weary of words, weary of worry.
The human world intrudes with its sorrow and its fear.
and sometimes I forget its goodness.
But I smile at the song sparrow hopping across the grass
as though he has springs in his feet.
I study the bluebirds feeding young ones in the hanging gourd
and the Carolina wrens gathering nesting material.

In their company I can rest into this moment
and human woes recede.
This refuge has become my refuge,
a microcosm of the world as I wish it were.
Any day now the ruby-throats
will arrive.