Communion

with all living things

I wrote this poem earlier in the week and am trying to get back to that state of calm contentment.

A gray Saturday in May
years ago was likely
spent at the mall,
shopping aimlessly,
lugging armfuls of sale 
items to the dressing
room, wanting only to
be the consumer and
not the consumed. 

Shopping, I knew, was
a coping mechanism
for chronic work stress
and mental exhaustion.  

As I distance myself 
from decades of 
depleting, I’ve begun 
to wonder if cancer 
was an inevitability – 
constant cortisol, a
tired cell turning, 
the over-consumption
of me!

Two years into
retirement, my body
feels different – more
white cumulus than dark,
heavy storm cloud
waiting to break.

May mornings carry
a chill so we build a fire.
I find myself content to 
rest in my chair, sip
coffee and slowly
become part of
a new day.  

I watch as Max hunts 
squirrels, Spooner 
licks snow from deck 
chairs, house plants 
bloom and feeders
tilt right, then left,
over-flowing with birds 
thankful for seed 
after their long
migration.

In this moment of 
quiet observation, 
I feel more grounded 
by the Goldfinch and
Grosbeak than the 
gold in my jewelry box,
more embodied in a
way that feels honest – 
the parts once pushed 
to the side, given new 
breath, new light, a
pen and paper to  
become.

From this place, joy 
rises with the sun 
and I abide with all
living things, joining
a chorus of communion,
nothing but coffee to 
consume.