Sunday Morning
You will know about
my Sunday morning
if you listen
with the white
ears of the oak-leaf hydrangea
as she raises her mouth
to drink the water
I rain down her throat.
By seven o’clock,
every cell of the sky
sings blue.
In the still air,
the sun gloves the maple’s thigh…
Every bird
has risen from the
the mysterious places
where they sleep.
Cardinals, chickadees
& predatory blue jays
babble in their
many tongues, announce
their presence,
report the locations
of food, warn of danger,
proclaim their readiness
for love.
On Sunday morning,
before church,
we are all innocent.
The Carolina
warbler makes no
accusations.
The arms of the evergreens
wave no judging fingers.
The withering rose petal
is not interested in any other
light than the one that drapes
her now.
Every blade of the awakened grass
surrenders
to the breeze that ripples
through this Sunday morning.
-Erie Chapman
Journal of Sacred Work 
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