Morning after John Woolman

 

Pause to admit the presence. Yes, you are.
God-Earth holds me safely inside and out.

Because I wear a safety mask, I think.
One less caution to pay attention to.

 

Freedom is another word for being.
For being prepared. For having less things.

Less things on my mind—or, is it IN mind?
Let go of that semantic game, and play

Another. The only intention is
to be with God-Earth in and out and on.

My steps take up the chant right left right and
God is here, God. Is here, God is. Here God

Is here. My morning tasks are done, and I
let go, then, into breathing. In tall oaks.

Maples, sycamore, elm and white pine, now.
I've left the street and entered the graveyard.

Rows of grave stones nestle among the trees
and bushes, upright and winter ready.

Sleeping place. The rhythm is “God-earth
is here." Sounds to my inner ears as OM.

As lullaby. When it's steady, no pause
is necessary, lull is all Earth-God.

There will come the turn around, and things
will pull at me, daily, new, or holy. All three.

And I will welcome them in their time, too.
The continuity. The new. The pause.

Aaaahh.

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.
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     © 2020 Susan L. Chast