When it comes to this-

dark diamonds of grief glinting

in the melee of the world–

there is little left to say.

So I take my self north to more land,

and listen for its secrets.

Well of sky opens, a depth of blue

that can drown or nourish.

Earth lays its rough-edged silk

to the wound that bleeds inward.

The pond releases frog-moss-leaf breath as

heron’s wings disperse a mist of light,

glimmering blue that turns sorrow

into an iridescence.

And I come to the tree that spreads its beauty

about birds, insects, old, old dirt.

Four hundred years here, a white oak.

A giant broken, bent and lustrous,

anchored still for what may come.

She offers branches, knows the hollows I inhabit.

I sit in the sunshine waiting for God.

Her majesty sings a rhythmic hum

and the universe echoes:

tap and release, crack and spill,

sigh, shudder and bow.

I lean against her creaking strength

as even children do, bereft of nothing.

I lean into

what is left

when it comes down

to only this.

I sit in the sun with God.