of all that dwells in this place,
grows, crawls, dies
and disappears.

of all that lived here
before there was foot fall
and arrogant machines,
only their ghosts remain undisturbed.

we slice the sod with shovels
look for evidence in history
count the rings in the fallen oaks
catalogue grasses and their brethren

use words to define,
explain and contain
and at times delight,
and render language
to conquer.

for without language
we fear we'll not know
that all that was here
was here without words.

but the ghosts of the field
remain untouchable, unrecorded
knowable only by tongueless spirit
and the unfathomable grace
of knowing god without
language.

who marked the birch
different in the skin,
and placed it at the spot
and the time to be caught
in the slanted rays of the sun,
at the tired end of day?

who brought me here
like i've been brought before,
unprepared for the gifts presented?

what is in common,
the aging of my open hands
and the leaf less birch
stark white in contrast
to the woods surrounding?

that i, in skin
stretched over bone frame,
am still and bent
and white and waiting,
grasping at the sky as the tree,
that rises beyond me,
showing me the faith of the hand
feeling the wood,
rooted and reaching,
touching the vitals of the earth rising,
ever rising to the underside of god.

faith alights,
as the egret
white beyond safety,
settles to seek food on
the edge of a drainage ditch.

obvious and beautiful,
he is where he is,
intent,
frozen in focus
rendering to the egret
what is for an egret, rendered.

that i should stand,
at the table,
this sabbath as egret beside
polluted water,
taking what nourishes,
discerning what is of god.
leaving the remainder to
his judgement.

choosing to rest within his rest,
longing to see what i have sought,
praying to learn how the egret prays.