A summer day, Mark Twain propped
between my hands, the sunlight
filtering through the oak leaves
fluttering somewhere above me,
the gurgle of the stream where I’ve come
to be still, a soothing balm
for daily worries, like being wrapped
inside my mother’s arms.
Some days, this place could be
outside my doorstep and still
projects and mopping and bill-paying
keep me huddled at a desk,
clinging to tasks as if they own
all the answers.
On this day in deep winter,
I choose Huckleberry and leaves
green as a late August afternoon,
my mind’s eye conjuring the safest
of comforts, the only place
where any believer truly meets God.
April 29, 2013