a missed pilgrimage
I love to be in the Smokies
when the growing year is young,
when the promise inherent in life
shouts and repeats itself
in every flower wild in their cultivation,
who in their audacity create perfection,
whether anyone notices or not,
this spring I could not pilgrimage
to our favorite places in the Southern Appalachians
where small flowers group
and where we worshippers can be renewed,
I am sure the displays still happened,
gratuitous acts of glory still revealed themselves,
but not to us,
and it feels like we missed a Sunday service
we need so as to remind ourselves
that the God we believe in
has messages for us to hear,
for over three months I have denied myself these woods
in fear of a virus that is also part of evolution,
but a rogue programming that has its own agenda,
I miss the wildflower whose agenda
is so close to what we want our agenda to be.
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