Two small squirrels leapt off the trunk
of the maple tree and ran through the grass.
I could not tell if they were barking or laughing,
but they meant what they were saying.
I keep trying to stand still and wait for
what is to be to come into view. When?
At first I felt as though I needed
to work on new tasks, a way of being
a priest among the people whom I love,
but now I can glimpse that perhaps
these days are a subtraction of things unnecessary.
Can I see my reflection in a raindrop?
My soul somehow feels more nimble,
resting in a realness I knew–sometimes–but that was
often shaded from the eye of my heart.
These days the barnacles are being scraped off the
hull of the ship so that it can glide more smoothly
on waters that are often choppy. Now?
It seems odd that we squabble
over the tiniest details of whether
Christ is present in bread and wine, and how,
when the answer is so clear
as the sun reflects off the ripples in the lake
and the heron steps slowly forward.