The other day, a friend sent me the following Emily Dickinson poem.
A Service of Song
Some keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.
Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.
God preaches,—a noted clergyman,—
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I’m going all along!
Today, being Sunday, I decided to visit a cathedral in the woods, where branches arched over the path and sunspots flitted along the center aisle.
All were welcome here, where youth and elders embraced visitors. (Christmas ferns and New York fern)
Ancient stories were offered up by those who long ago learned to adapt to change. (Equisetum)
Any who sought fulfillment found it. (Sweet pepperbush)
Family members . . . (Wild sarsaparilla)
demonstrated their differences. (Bristly sarsaparilla)
New life was offered . . .
even to those waiting along the margins. (Marginal wood fern)
And the saints watched over all present. (St. Johnswort)
At last, I reached the altar.
One transept offered views to the left.
And the other to the right.
But it was the light on the stained glass windows that provided the most wonder. (American Emerald dragonfly)
On this daily journey in heaven, I’m thankful for graces offered each moment I worship creation. (Calico pennant)