On retreat – A poem

I went walking this morning

The air hung heavy with moisture

As the winter lets go

And the rain softly falls

The light—perfect

So that the beech leaves—shaking at the slightest breeze—

glowed.

The eerie – white – yellow leaves

have begun to fall

And I smile,

think how much they remind me of feathers

—angel feathers, it strikes me today,

and I take out my phone to take a picture

of the golden-veined feather-leaves

resting in footprints in the snow.

I take a path tread out by others into the middle

of the labyrinth

The center moon-gate too compelling to ignore.

Standing there, I look up.

Prayer—

perhaps too strong a word for the silent ache in my heart.

“Why does my soul always seem so sore?”

the question arising from the mists around me

“Maybe because it’s tender, Lena,”

comes a response.

“Right,” I laugh …

“Tender enough to notice the tracings of angels in the snow.”

I turn

The smell of wood smoke and pine mingle

rising to my senses like incense

My stomach thinking about a meal.

 

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