I will hear you praying, singing
when the footfall of old man North
leaves one last frost in our fern-clad glens
and dogwoods lift a hundred praising hand pairs
to a blanket of new warm rain.
You are there, among the red oaks
bent low to listen for the rising pulse of earth,
as jonquils tune their trumpets to the sun.
Your voice comes in with a flourish,
filling chords that have been hollow since you’ve gone.
You float through every open window
as long days leave time for love and laughing,
broken bread and story bits the old ones drop
for nests of eager, wide-mouthed young.
And when I hear you lending velvet
to the slick green skin of spring
I’ll bring out the little flattened rosebud
left to hold your place between green pastures,
beside still waters,
in the house of the Lord,