Poetry

By Helen Mar Cook


Visiting the Sacred Grove

Light sifts through leaves,
a bevy of beatitudes
screening elm and oak,
cedar and maple with birdsong.
In this slant of sun
a white moth flutters,
a squirrel scurries into shadow.
Breezes talk remembrance of radiance,
bright shards of light,
marvelous and shining,
the boy kneeling in prayer,
when darkness took on shape
and crept out of the grove.
Alive to the Vision
I walk out of the woodland
to discover wild carrot
veiling the fields,
no question of whiteness,
holiness, an essence rising
luminous and shining
like Gospel Light.

The Contact’s Prayer

I wish I knew
the things you do, and
could comprehend where
my beginnings
began.
Would you bring me
into the circle
of your understanding?
But, please …
Take me not faster
nor
farther than
the light of my own lamp
will reach—I’m afraid of the dark.

Sacrament Service

Boys walk,
lanky in their white shirts,
heavy with responsibility,
proud hands too big for skinny arms.
Babies fuss,
squirming in the hot, still air,
heedless of uneasy mothers
and impatient fathers.
Fragments of song drift,
low and rumbly,
warm tones
from the other ward’s priesthood meeting.
In this familiar rustling
I feel peace.
A cooling breeze
and the scent of rain.

[photo] Photo by Lee V. Kochenderfer