Poetry

This Summer, I Rooted Myself

This summer, I will not flee
no packed bags, no distant sea.
No cemetery vacay, no grand escape,
instead a work-cation in my own shape.

While others chased far-off peace,
I found that staying brought more release.
No packed itineraries or travel plans,
just time unfolding in my own hands.

I stayed, and in the staying, grew
in garden soil and words renew.
Seven summers in this place,
from poison ivy to a greener oasis.

The cardinals called from nearby trees,
five bunnies scattered through hydrangeas' knees.
And as chainsaws echoed down the street,
I made our yard a safe retreat
a wildlife haven, full and wild,
a home for birds, for blooms, for sundials.

I worked not in a rigid frame,
my perspective changed in this domain.
The kitchen island bore my dreams
The patio, my quiet schemes.
The screened back porch with my comfy chair,
Wind chimes chiming through the air.

I nurtured more than stems and leaves
I cherished the moments; I chased beliefs.
An online course, where poems could grow,
each word a bloom, a friend or foe.
I built not just a garden fence,
but space for others: knowledge immense.

Moonlit tours through a sacred ground,
workshops where new voices were found.
Creative sparks, both shared and sown,
No one ever writes alone.

And now, another book is nearly here,
a harvest ripened throughout the year.
Not just one dream, but another fulfilled,
by the roots I chose, and the soil I tilled.

So no, I didn’t skip a break.
I just redefined what rest to take.
Each breath, each bloom, a soft staycation
a daily, grounded, holistic celebration.

I rested deep, I worked with grace,
I found my rhythm, held my place.
A summer not escaped, but known
My life, this garden, a perfect home.

You ask me how to pray to someone who is not

You ask me how to pray to someone who is not—a god.
Not crowned in thunder or enthroned abroad,
but ever so near, the silence sings
through roots and wings and hidden things.

Then watch the garden where the Holy grows,
not in cathedral stone, but in divine rows;
where beetles hum and robins preach,
and heaven bends within their reach.

The spider, hanging in the light,
weaves rosaries of silk. At night
its chapel spun between two leaves,
where shadows twist, no one sees.

The bee, golden alms, is its task,
works like prayer, no one asks
how nectar turns to something sweet
a miracle, a glorious feat.

The ant, who knows no creed or fame,
builds temples none will ever name,
yet every grain it lifts with care
becomes a hymn, becomes a prayer.

The birds, with diversity in the living,
Work together, an act of giving
None alone must protect the tree
Against the predators, an act of philanthropy.

The vine, with green and clinging grace,
reaches like hands that seek a face
it climbs toward light with no regret,
a psalm in motion, rise and set.

Even weeds, with thorns and spikes, cast out,
still wear the sun, still grow from sprouts
they teach that grace will always grow
in places we forget to know.

So how to pray to someone who is not—a god?
Pray with seed, with soil, with sod.
Let silence be your sacred text,
and awe the only thing expressed.

For prayer is this: to see, to stay,
to be like them is no more to say.
The garden knows what saints have guessed:
God walks where every creature rests.