Scent of needles & sap, the green of early winter.
pond ripples hurried & flattened by the fast cold
wind harsh enough to scatter the mallards
from water’s rough-textured surface. They leap
& flap & huddle on muddy grass, clustered, quacking.
Midday the clouds morph from one grey-white
shape to another, shadows strong, drawn from tall
pines onto the unpaved road. What hours lie ahead
we never know. No Terce or Compline ring here,
no call to prayer but antiphon train horn
& the disturbed ducks.
If I do not bow my head or bend my knee nonetheless
I praise. I praise you in and of this moment
whatever it is you are.
[…] Ann E. Michael, Praise […]