Hymn of Dawn
January 18, 2015
Stretching upward, a choir of dark feathered branches
fills the pale aqua hovering above the lightening peach
that breaks from the smouldering umber
mountain silhouette horizon beyond my window.
Dawn: the trees in celebration reach their paintbrush-bristles upward
stretching toward heaven, branching, forever branching
from branch to limb, from trunk, from tree, from ground
from root from soil, spilling toward heaven in echoes of praise;
eternal earthy jubilance to the One Life-Giver
their wooded fingers splayed like mine.
I stand at the window and see how like they are to my body-
these trees, my arms, my hands. Woody boughs appear soft
like paintbrushes gently swaying, painting, wafting up their work,
giving back what they’ve taken in- the supreme nourishment
from sky to leaf to soil to man and to God back again
in praise in the morning before we rise, a glorious song of joy,
an exuberant psalm of being; a psalm of holy living.
Softly singing are the utmost branches, upward raised at the dawn
of day, to join the chorus of the birds aloft.
I raise my arms, my hands in thankful praise and join their hymn.
Shock of golden sun bursts forth emblazoning everything, warming all
in the joyful voice of the One who hears and is made glad.
Dawn on Neebish Island, Michigan overlooking the St. Mary River