small old house with <br />blackberry bushes <br />gathering in the backyard <br /> <br />squirrels climbing on a railroad <br />tie stuck in the ground, <br /> sitting with folded hands <br />to say thier morning prayers. <br /> <br />the liturgies of autumn <br />held in broken twigs <br /> scattered around <br /> <br /> st ignatious in the folded <br />leaved piety of late febuary <br /> <br /> and me in the kitchen <br />looking out the window <br />with a bowl full of scottish <br />oatmeal. <br /> <br />oat's and prayers <br />all morning long, <br /> <br /> like adam in the garden <br /> i busy myself naming <br /> the animals <br /> <br /> i might just call him <br /> the abbot i think, <br /> <br />looking down into the <br /> sink full of dirty dish's <br />they can wait, for later<br /><br />nathan martin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-slow-quiet-morning/
