I would like to press
my cheek against
her frozen ground,
hear her whisper secrets
of the changing tides
and molting leaves
and what it means to be
standing, after so long.

She would tell me
of how many seasons
she has watched turn,
how the world doesn’t
stop for anyone,
how no matter what-
life has a way of coming
back round again.

Whoever we are,
whatever our prayers-
may we be
our own offering.
The life we cast out
into the world
an act of worship
as each steady breath,
invokes our belonging
to this time and place.

Even on my coldest
of days, I still long
for the press of that
hallowed ground,
so I can bury myself
in the lull of cranberry dusk,
and rest in assurance
of life’s promises below.

The leaves rustle
as somewhere in me
I can almost hear them say-
Only love will win
in the end.

Only love will win
in the end.