Member Poem

musings of a front-porch priest

Some days, when creaking on the swing to watch
the world, the wind is only wind and not
a whispered prayer. Those days I do not catch
the punchline of the squirrel’s chittered joke,
or Ave Maria sung by white-robed choirs
of cable-swaying doves. The wrinkled leaves
are leaves that must be raked — they do not declare
that life requires death, that sound must live
with silence. Days like these, I pour a glass
or two of discount chardonnay to watch
the madness of a wordless world flow mutely past.

           -published in Eunoia Review