Cross of the Soul

A footprint in the snow stands out,

Where I see,

A cross in the sole,

Like the cross of the soul,

That hinders thought and imagination.

And on that cross is a drop of color,

That stains the grain and reminds us,

Get out there,

Smell the roses.

But mind the thorns, those nasty thorns.

Listen to the choir of songbirds,

As they do their daily work.

There is no need for preacher or prayer,

Silence is it’s own lesson.

So sit upon the grass that cushions the body,

And just look, feel, smell the air.

That brings its own tranquility.

One day a priest came to my grandfather,

As he worked in the mud and the weeds,

Asking him to come to God’s house this Sunday.

Is God not among the mud and weeds,

My grandfather said,

As he is among your church?

For if God does indeed have a house,

I’m sure he steps out for a walk every once and a while.