How I love your
wooden pulpit…
the etchings look like living veins.

Even more, I love
your sermons.
Without words…
you sit upon your perch
surrounded by leaves.

I hear your unspoken whispers in the wind.

What’s it like
in the tree tops
to see the rising sun?
That ball of flame—
is it like the fire of your
spirit within?

At night,
do you pull the stars
down to light your domain?
Does your striped tail curl
a constellation
playing long enough to let it go?

That mask you wear…
is it so no one knows
your name?

You possess nothing
yet, you live amidst all things.

Little Preacher—
I love observing
how you praise.

You can go back inside.

I love that your services are not
held in time.

Silent Preacher

I feel your welcome.
“I’m inside.”

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