The trees in the backyard <br />were all talking, <br />a prayer meeting of elders. <br />They looked down below, <br />surveying the space surrounding them. <br />Branched bowing low to the ground <br />then stretching up tall again, <br />scraping the edges of the sky <br />whispering into the wind. <br />The sound was a form of worship, <br />a pine psalm. <br />It swirled along the trails of twilight, <br />sanctifying a Spring evening <br />with its symphony. <br />The trees tossed back their heads. <br />Mockingbirds and starlings scattered, <br />sending needles sailing. <br />A slow and soft rain <br />swooping and spiraling down, <br />settling upon the altar <br />- Earth's breast, <br />settling among the azalea roots <br />the emergence of iris and indigo, <br />settling into a stillness <br />surrounding a Sunday.<br /><br />W.I. Stoneberger<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/worship-service/
