Early Prayers In a Small Town Park
Sunday in the dripping park
baby gods are dozing in their cradles.
Distant, white-walled churches
rumble low and husky
as voices rise and fall.
Wet trees tremble and listen,
tap into the echoing prayers
sotto voce tidings bubbling up
as a dab and dibble,
as a mushrooming color....
could it be Autumn?
Cradles are rocking
swayed by a mothering earth.
There's a fluttering in all this uttering
green and pendulous arms lift
to shake a leafy living
into a deathless falling -
a new renewing.
The round suburban park
circles the playing children
like a puppy dog
leaping through the leaves
of the heaped and fallen
and all the breeze-blown flights
of this muted ebbing
still yet to come.
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