Let Everything that Breathes
by Stephen Damon
In the predawn darkness
He sees a subtle shape
Hidden beneath a tree
A redwood carving of St. Francis
Now splintered, weathered gray
Holding a broken washing bowl.
He listens to crickets
Chatting back and forth
In steady rhythmic rhyme
And to a mourning dove
Chanting Oo-wah-hooo
Of an ancient solitude.
In the distance a songbird
Calls to his brothers and sisters
Who will gather
In every feather of color
And every manner of song
For morning service.
Together, they will make
A joyful noise.
Bows,
Stephen
Leave a Comment