Recently I've been encouraged to write about my daily experiences in a way that's immediate and uncritical, as a complement to my style of prayer and reflection that's more analytical and intellectual. Although both avenues assist me in my desire to recognize God's presence, follow Christ's call, and heed the Spirit's guidance, I tend to privilege the latter, and often deny myself the liberty to engage the former. Rummaging through a (physical, not virtual) folder of poetry that I used actively during philosophy studies, yet have neglected on my shelf for much of my regency here in Worcester, I found many treasures that I'd forgotten, relics of a familiar yet now distant part of my identity. I'm praying for a renewal of this sort of vision and expression, for even a brief reading of several such poems– including the one below, written at the foot of the tree pictured with it– clearly affirmed that inspirational substance is never lacking.
"Fallen Leaves"
Draped in tranquil muted brilliance
obscuring grass withered by hardening soil
atrophied shards of life flung down
by ominous breezes
or chilling, slicking drops
their ephemeral beauty threatened
by those who would remove
the unkempt detritus
rather than slow and reap
a second autumn harvest
and live more deeply
their solidarity with the fallen.
I bared my feet in humility
sunk against the hardness of dormant life
letting its crackles rekindle my vital flames
sent to gather the fallen
into the smudged liberation that
(I) found (me)
at the foot of deeply rooted
redeeming wood.
Tower Grove Park
St. Louis MO
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