My prayer wheel is the turning year,
the sun my confessor, my priestess the moon.
My daily offices are morning mist, evening swallows,
hush of midnight.
My scripture, white clouds on blue emptiness;
pictograms of geese, pointing South.
I gave up theology to watch the bees make honey.
My anointing is the mud between my toes.
The barefoot poet, Jesus, taught me to mulch and till
the heavens into loam.
His Spirit is a quietness in my heart.
Hope gets in the way; the source is gratitude.
Through vaulted arches of hemlock and cedar,
a thrush bell calls me to prayer.
May the pilgrim melt into her path, the path
into the goal,
the goal into this moment, and the very first step
into Waylessnes....
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