Poetry Circle

Early Sunday morning we gather with or without the sun. Our host passes mugs of hot water, bags of tea. We sit between the light coming through her big front window and five caged finches singing from the kitchen. Someone recites a long-remembered phrase, "over golden groves unleaving," or "the woods are lovely, dark and deep." Another continues with her own words, a mere translation of what she meant to say. We turn it on our tongues and speak it out again. We hesitate to call this worship. Call it praise.