“Shall I say this morning, yet again, The prayer I prayed through last night’s falling rain?
The first ‘I love You so’
-said some hundred million words ago-
Said again, silent and slow,
Because You already know.
I wonder if, dim and dull from use, You tire of hearing
the chant - predictable; a plod
Of well-worn boots that beat the clod
Of well-worn, time-worn paths.”
I walked at sun’s rising: another clear, fair dawn.
And heard again the sweet, the familiar,
The ruddy-breasted robin call
To a bird in birches, white and tall,
Clean in the young summer sun.
A bold, warm, climbing sun,
Dazzling the dew drops, each one
A diamond. And grass, green and bright
Catching soft, yellow light.
I walked a midnight-path, the hundredth time,
Bewitched by the moon-trance,
Gaze at the star dance,
Brushed by a cool, dry breeze
That rustled through trees
Which cast dark lines
Across the grey ground.
And like each midnight, every hundred misted-midnights that I’d walked before,
I sighed. Delighted.