A Morning Mass on Mothers’ Day
I arose Sunday morn in the misting,
Half hooded, I pulled back the shroud,
From the bed to the bath faintly listing,
With the canopy covered in cloud.
I pulled on my pants in the darkness,
I slipped on the soft cotton shirt,
I left the back door slightly open,
And trekked down the moist narrow dirt.
It was morning, all misty the meadow,
The river was smooth as a glass,
I bent by the edge of a hedgerow,
And peered through the door to the mass.
Spring beauties sat straight in the narthex,
The lily lamps towered anew,
The bleeding hearts hung by the windows,
Each one held a tear drop of dew.
And there in the front at the altar
Of a moss-covered log and a stone,
Stood the Lincoln green lad in the pulpit,
Silent and straight and alone.
I paused, turned an ear to his sermon,
Though he spoke not a word to the air,
So telling I couldn’t work a word in,
As I knelt in the silence right there.
A Mothers’ Day sermon on Sunday,
In the midst of the flowering wood,
Near the bend of the silent still water,
Where a Jack-in-the-Pulpit stood.