A Slow Quite Morning
small old house with
blackberry bushes
gathering in the backyard
squirrels climbing on a railroad
tie stuck in the ground,
sitting with folded hands
to say their morning prayers.
the liturgies of autumn
held in broken twigs
scattered around
st ignatious in the folded
leafed piety of late february
and me in the kitchen
looking out the window
with a bowl full of scottish
oatmeal.
oat's and prayers
all morning long,
like adam in the garden
i busy myself naming
the animals
i might just call him
the abbot i think,
looking down into the
sink full of dirty dish's
they can wait, for later
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