Choosing the Holy
You know they were planted this way,
all in a row, a holy grove or a windbreak.
In this part of the country, it could be either.
You choose the holy. Choose to listen for God
in the rustling of leaves
and the autumn changes, choose
to be less, admit your humanness,
fail occasionally, admit your need
for something more in order to survive;
choose to sit here in the middle of the grove
and wait for inspiration, god-breathed
to go on.
About this poem
Some days we need more.
The picture was taken at the Southern Vermont Arts Center.
I love avenues of trees. I always associate them with France.