Homily

The unruly lawn is happy with butterflies,    white angels ministering to shoals of clover.The green shadows slowly drift east    down the stony bank.Three silvered ash draw down the light    into the tangled dark at the forest's edge.The distant crow stutters his soliloquy    with no one to hear but me.And I don't know what to say    to such wild and perfect eloquence.A robin confidently trails his song    along the bottom of the breeze.Echoes linger after.I remember grandma's preacher, walking    the tombstone paths, hands behind back,    mumbling, and the willows lashing    the sunlight into strips of foil.Grace was not yet in my vocabulary.Still, the word had been placed    upon my tongue that day    and still I practice.