Grounding Soul

''Carved with the Tools of Time, the Sculptor'' by Edith R. Wilson

How odd that my body
—as it wrinkles,
sags, and discolors—
better grounds my soul,
as if more time
nurturing spirit 
is what causes aging.

We ripen slowly
and then, like fruit,
we’re plucked and eaten,
or whither on the tree.

I’m looking
at two young pines
as I ruminate, white pines
that produce few cones
but have grown deep roots
that need the earth
as much as God needs me.

Indeed, God needs what
the earth holds—and
nature itself—to reveal
what is holy.

Everything—us
among the rest—
more or less succeeds
at the chores of life.
How I love to watch
the fecundity
knowing I take part.

 

 

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