A Morning in May
Poetry
I cup the chalice with both hands and slowly approach the temple of trees, embellished with glistening threads of web and blooming iris.
Dewey grass anoints my ankles, tickling my skin. The coffee steams against the cool morning air and I smell the riot of lily-of-the-valley.
To meditate in zero gravity with the May morning is to be in love with life. The bird chorus offers a prelude to a day full of miracles if only I am open.
Each twitter and warble resonates under the leaves of red and green, blotched by a sun that has no thought of going down. A squawk and a chitter, perfectly timed syncopation from a squirrel ring out while the brown rabbit plays acolyte under the hedgerow, eyeing me critically, chewing on some deeper thought.
I stand to offer a prayer, but it is pointless and small, my one life intruding on this abundance. “Take me!” I offer and sip the oily sweetness of this new day.
All glory, laud, and honor are shining, resounding. My soul is full and I wonder how to give voice to a prayer that is only inept compared to birdsong.
I proffer silence and witness this present, as it showers around me. I drain the cup and look up under the red maple.
She gives me the smallest of waves.
