Sixty-seven years, oh Lord, to look at the clouds,
the trees in deep, moist summer,
daisies and morning glories
opening every morning
their small, ecstatic faces-
Or maybe I should just say
how I wish I had a voice
like the meadowlark's
sweet, clear, and reliably
slurring all day long..
the meadowlark' whistles, its breath-praise,
its thrill-song, its anthem, its thanks, its
alleluia. Alleluia, oh Lord.
This morning upon the back porch I took in the song of birds in the near dark during my morning meditation. Following which I had the sense that no matter the coming aging years, I would have gratitude for how life flowed through others, if not through me. Then this poem. Am I channeling Mary these days? How did she know what I was thinking? Maybe we both are conduits for bird song and for the deep moist days of summer amongst the trees. We've heard the melody that come the end, there is nothing but gratitude for having heard the song of life. We still into eternal listening, knowing that the earth cannot keep from singing.
What song do you hear today?
Totally amazing..
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