Mustard seed

Dearly Beloved, Grace and Peace to you.                    

Among darkening mountains sending roots down into your despair           only a small thing in your hand a rowboat among battleships a soft song shredded by wind           What equals the wheelbarrow before you full of laundry or papers or stained bed sheets?           How does the bird find her way to the Patagonian plains or the salmon up the impossible stream?           What raises the oak? What fills the moon so full? The sea? Close your eyes and look around           the fingerprinted clay molded into you along the bones of your years the decaying soil of your will           beneath your continent something shimmers nothing more than a word           drawn up like a tide, a forest a song sung by generations in harmony a root that cracks the mountains           not the least bit anonymous someone holds you close in this umbilical world           a warmth is given a rain falls on something no greater than a mustard seed

                    Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve

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