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I kneel to pray beneath an oak tree’s leaves,
where my journey began.
Broken limbs straggle over a patchy lawn,
a neglected place full of holes, 
shoveled from childhood memories.

I bow at the altar of the tall oak.
Days come and go, but yesterdays
are no longer my foundation. 
The oak’s trunk encompasses 
a sturdiness and truth
I desire. Its roots are my roots.
Its branches are my faith, my full embrace.
I am left vulnerable in this season.

Blackbirds, descending from dark skies
perch on barest branches, cawing 
in a famished frenzy. Come winter,
their desperate souls  will escape
the chilled air.

A prayer comes in muffled thoughts cried 
until lived out, until answered.
God tells me I am more than these thoughts.

I’ll wait to bare my soul like the Oak
in winter
for I feel dull under 
autumn’s bright coat.

Lord, will you find me lying still,
silent below the flight of swirling leaves?    
Am I drowned out by the blackbirds’ caws?
 
With the birth of a child, hope is reborn.
Every step leads me back home.
So, I carry my babes to the oak. 
Through the seasons, it cradles 
their innocence. The bough rises 
higher than the pine trees donned 
in deceitful evergreen. Nothing lasts 
except a child’s dreams. 

The tall oak feels like 
a new beginning tonight;
I peel off my layer of 
fright, peel spirit from bone.

With my eldest son knelt at my side, 
prayers are lifted within the song
of autumn (Lord, grant me peace 
and broad wings for my flight) 
then after the glow of evening 
sun has fallen, I hope our prayers 
are an offering of love, two voices heard,
weightier together.

I feel illuminated under night skies, 
as starlight sprinkles wonder.

I pray to remain vulnerable 
so I can accept the gift of love. 
I pray God chisels away the bitterness 
of days gone by. I want to forgive,
fill in the holes before I die.
  
When my son and I pray, 
we pray for peace, for family, 
for the acorns that grow 
into mighty oak trees.

Sometimes I forget to notice 
subtle differences between 
the weeping and whispering 
of whirling leaves. 
Sometimes I forget the difference 
between a want and a need. 

My child sincerely prays for his dad, brother and me; 
he prays for his friend to sleep with sweet dreams, 
and for the blackbirds at our feet,
scavenging through autumn’s dead weeds.

Then, with twinkling eyes, 
he asks me for a loaf of bread.
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