VESPERS
He sits on the porch and ponders life
watching wooded trees at the horizon
set ablaze by the late afternoon sun.
Words spring forth from the songs of birds
chanting their Vespers prayer.
He fingers the narrow pattern
of woodgrain on his rocker,
stacked like lines of a familiar poem
waiting to be spoken aloud
in his own nightly prayer.
Meanwhile, his hunting dog lays
at his feet, witness to this testimony.
He sits on the porch and ponders life
watching wooded trees at the horizon
set ablaze by the late afternoon sun.
Words spring forth from the songs of birds
chanting their Vespers prayer.
He fingers the narrow pattern
of woodgrain on his rocker,
stacked like lines of a familiar poem
waiting to be spoken aloud
in his own nightly prayer.
Meanwhile, his hunting dog lays
at his feet, witness to this testimony.
2 Comments:
This poem is speaking to me in the most lovely way. The Hours are such food for the soul and this is beautiful nourishment.
Thanks, Christine. The curative powers of time at a monastery are amazing!
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