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by Tazman
Rated: E · Prose · Spiritual · #2186533
On a silent retreat in northern Vermont, this vision came to me.

Cleansing of the heart, the soul
Is here in the narrow slatted wooden steps
Creasing my bottom;
And here in the wood sidings knot, pressing
Flesh against bone in my back.

Slender brown - headed stalks
Bobbing in abeyance to breezes
Bend to flick bees
Resting on red clover heads
As if saying ... get busy
You have work to do.

Oppressive wetness in the air
Bearing witness to the coming rain
Is given no heed by the ants
Busy with whatever it is ants do.

Peeling white - painted cabins
And purple bird houses
Once full of life are now quiet;
Perhaps longing for next year
And to be filled with life again.

Everything in its proper time my grandfather memory says,
For God is the conductor of this great orchestra
And your part in the song
Is to remember you are only a part
Whose meter and tune must blend with all the other parts.

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