By Caroline Liberatore
Let my verses meander, woven around fields
of hallowed kindness with their hummed liturgies.
Bee to chicory, chicory to pond; leaning to listen
to pebbles whirling beneath, rippling jubilee.
The revelry bubbles up into eternity, an apostolic ecology
riddled with rhythm and symmetry and color theory.
The earth’s very breath is found in delighted yielding,
so I lean in too; it is only right to mirror its humility.
Sparrows nestle, treetops lean, and I will choose to glean
contentment as a charmed transcriber of the Lord’s fountained poetry.