Lately,

 

                when a branch pulls at my sleeve

like a child's tug, or the fog, reticent & thick,

lifts--& strands of it hang like spun sugar

in branches & twigs, or when a phoebe

trills from the hackberry,

                            I believe such luck

is meant for me.  Does this happen to you?

Do you believe at times that a moment

chooses you to remember it & tell about it__

so that it may live again?

--Laure-Anne Bosselaar

[Foggy afternoon on the Schoodic Peninsula in Acadia National Park].

Eternal Poet

 

I’ve become so exhausted

from praying 

and waiting

  and waiting

    and waiting 

and then nothing happens

prayer is too 

one-sided 

for me 

it’s like trying

to be pen pals 

with Saturn 

I have been unsuccessfully begging 

God to notice me for years

so, I’ve stopped trying to 

coerce the great mystery

to arrange my life the way I 

want it to be or to remove a

tumor from my friend 

instead of praying into

a holy silence 

I flirt with the unfolding rave 

that exists all around me 

now I just listen to 

the wild grass grow

  and smell raindrops 

sunbathing on clouds 

and feel July sunbeams

roll down my skin like 

hot raw honey 

and taste the sea salt

on my lips whenever 

I watch the ocean dance 

I have quit asking

the unseen to see me 

Instead, I’ve become 

a better witness to

the untamed wonder 

that has been begging

for me to pay attention

to it for years 

because maybe

Creation and I

have been too busy 

speaking

to actually hear 

each other 

I’ll be quiet first, God, 

so I can listen to Your

howl move through 

the trees and 

                   the holes in my heart 

  then maybe if You

take a breath 

I’ll get a turn to talk 

 in order for You

to finally hear me 

but even if I don’t 

at least I’ll have

heard a  symphony 

perhaps prayer isn’t 

telephone call 

with a formal King 

it’s a river trip

with an eternal poet 

 who writes love letters

to me in the water

— John Roedel

[Photo from Olympic National Park]