Thursday Poem - Unchurched

It’s Earth that breathes around us,
so perilous in its comforts,
so perfect in impermanence.

Autumnal sun streams through

these yellow maple leaves

translucent as stained glass.

The ground beneath my feet

is strewn with pine cones, acorns.

The random pattern of continuance.

Etched columns of pine and oak.

Incense of resin and fungi.

Great glacial stones for altars.

High winds and choirs of

minor breezes, the whispering hush.

It is the Sabbath. It is enough.

Dolores Stewart (Riccio), from The Nature of Things