Summer Hymn
In the pyres of snow-worn rocks,
a simple alter presents itself:
Sun-warmed stoned, soft
blankets of moss, water falling
from who-knows-where,
from a winter
who-knows-how-long-
ago.
What else is there?
What more is necessary to recognize
the need for celebration?
Praise in the movement of the stream.
Praise in the birdsongs.
Praise in the too-blue sky and
the green trees.
Praise!
And don't get me started on
the wildflowers--
the three brave ones
that grew, like a miracle,
from a crack in the rock.
So small! So determined to live,
despite all that coarseness and
roughness,
Each unlikely, vibrant petal
respiring softly,
as it rose towards light
sighing,
Thank you,
thank you,
thank you,
thank you.
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