At the base of this mountain
High above the valley
Stillness drops down
drapes the forest, dresses
us, washes our feet, enters us
with each inhalation
This is the altar of the Sacred
This is the Bread of the Great Thanksgiving.
~ Fed, by Antoinette Voûte Roeder
Who can tell how lovely in June is the
honey locust tree,
a tree should be so sweet and live
in this world?
Each white blossom
on a dangle of white flowers holds one green seed—
a new life.
Also each blossom on a dangle of flowers
holds a flask
of fragrance called Heaven,
which is never sealed.
The bees circle the tree and dive into it.
They are crazy with gratitude.
They are working like farmers.
They are as happy as saints.
After awhile the flowers begin to wilt and drop down into the grass.
Welcome shines in the grass.
Every year I gather
handfuls of blossoms and eat of their mealiness,
the honey melts in my mouth,
the seeds make me strong,
both when they are crisp and ripe,
and even at the end
when their petals have turned dull yellow.
So it is
if the heart has devoted itself to love,
there is not a single inch of emptiness.
all the way to the grave.
~ Honey Locust, by Mary Oliver
Wednesday, October 31, 7:15 pm
Ralph Connor Memorial United Church