Blessed Be
Ben blesses water he drinks. A Standing Rock elder taught him to thank Mother Earth and the Tualatin River. Ben is modern. He adds the EPA.
Ben blesses water he drinks. A Standing Rock elder taught him to thank Mother Earth and the Tualatin River. Ben is modern. He adds the EPA.
Sunset blooms like a bruise in the wintry gray sky. Gentle night will bring snow flurries falling like stars. Kia waits on the porch to see.
A ragged formation of geese flies by, squawking about a storm. The sky is half-blue, but Linda shutters her windows. She misses the rainbow.
She lives near the shore, but Pearl hasn’t seen it in years. She’s forgotten the way to the sea, but she remembers the language of seagulls.
Even Mia’s bulldog learned to love the rain. They’d prowl the Oregon coast, faces upturned, whether spritz or splat. It healed Mia’s vision.
“Are you saved?” asks a new friend, by email. Ada settles under an oak tree and replies, “God saves me every day, whether I like it or not.”
Her glasses were clean, so it wasn’t clear why she couldn’t see the plum blossoms. God had to break a bough, so she’d trip into pink spring.
The year the woods became Lincoln Logs, Cal had his first son. The boy grew up unknowing the rustling ghosts of trees that haunt his father.
An old mop is standing on its head in Ed’s garden, its stick like driftwood, its strings bedded in moss. A bluebird perches on it. Ed grins.