Sunday Morning in the Deep Green Woods
Sunday morning in the deep green woods.
Shoulds and should nots don’t stir my soul.
I could touch the church with my foot. I could
stretch my thighs and shins then shout.
Waking up rather late, not late, but later,
my coffee just out the gate. I stumble into
my recliner and read an unknown poet
to me. To others, I could be that utterly. Hot
on the trail of neither shoulds or should nots -
to write another poem on the spot with stains
on my cup, on my soul, or be so bold as to
go to church, raise the roof, hug the necks -
oh yes so bold as to love God and one another,
to live those two commandments, to reach heaven,
no it’s not too late. I’m out the gate. Communion
on my plate - remembrance of the life Christ lived.
Should not need a bag of nails and a hammer
to work up eternity’s sweat. Nonetheless, I’ll
follow my Lord to the moon and back. Which
moon you ask? Now isn’t that the point?
The Son of Man owns it all, and I hear the stir
of waters as the blinding light illuminates it all,
and guess what, I can see in transcending primaries,
but also in the not-seen-before, and so why do I
go to church? I stretch my hands to Abba (Daddy)
for all its worth - the provider of all that prevails.
Sunday morning in the deep green woods.
Shoulds and should nots don’t stir my soul.
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