Archive
11/08/09 - (2)
Serenity
Another warm Sunday begs me come in, Under its humbling, watchful eye, Just to remind me of the worthwhile purpose of worship.
For an hour, I watch two fishermen cast out, reel in, With the skillful efficiency of expert anglers, Both, every third try, catching a bass, releasing it.
Excitedly, kids, with their young parents in tow, Take to this wooden deck, watch the ducks Flock to the breadcrumbs they toss into the tiny lake.
In this quiet, isolated moment, I'm as intimate with transcendent serenity as I'll likely be. After all, Indian summer is its own religion.
It makes no claims of exclusivity, Denies no one admittance to its ecumenical outdoors. Faith in nature is as close to breathing as believing ever gets.
11/08/09 - (2)
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