Backyard Theology

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BACKYARD THEOLOGY


He quickens our field of vision,

splits like a breath the unmown

grass. Brief rustle in the corner


of an eye and then a clamber

heavenward, invisible among

the clutter clouding our ken. 


Sometimes, if we’re still, we’ll

hear a rustle, a faint chitter. Still,

sometimes summer silence


is what we get, deep, and thicker even 

than the oak. We sit a spell,

waiting for a nut to fall,


a leaf, something real to tell us

how much higher truth is

than we would ever dare to guess.



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