I am the product of pages of trees;
of yards, fenced indefinitely. Ages stack themselves in my DNA, they rhyme with their reasons, like seasons, they change, exchange space, re-defining me. Every day is a century -full, ripe with prayers someone prayed:
I collect prayers, we all do. Like it or not prayers cluster our thoughts: clusters, branched with words. Prayers ask, they reach with little or long arms, they are alone, or many;
I am the product of pages of trees, reaching their arms in a sky that hears what humans may not. When a tree whispers, she exhales and a human breathes. I am the product of not just one tree, by streams of living waters.
All this maybe too much to think of, but it is what I am: the product of pages, of tides and times, yards where people in houses and chairs carved cities and villages ripe for change-
yes I have collections: human prints in me, they come out to play without asking, they may smile, weep, laugh, or just be…and some of them kneel their heart at an altar where a Heart Beats, louder, lower, softer, gentler, wider, deeper, sweeter, closer, nearer than any other and I’m amazed by the quantum of the Love of the Living God.
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