Tuesday, August 25, 2020

Poem - Unchurched

It’s Earth that breathes around us,
so perilous in its comforts,
so perfect in impermanence.

Autumnal sun streams through
these yellow maple leaves
translucent as stained glass.

The ground beneath my feet
is strewn with pine cones, acorns.
The random pattern of continuance.

Etched columns of pine and oak.
Incense of resin and fungi.
Great glacial stones for altars.

High winds and choirs of
minor breezes, the whispering hush.
It is the Sabbath. It is enough.

Dolores Stewart (Riccio) from The Nature of Things

This morning's poem is printed here with the kind permission of the late poet. Dolores was my friend, and I still miss her so much.

1 comment:

Barbara Rogers said...

And I'm so glad you give us her words, a talented poet who evokes beautiful images.