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.
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