Field Notes of a Wanderer

Dear Wanderer,

There is a poem

woven into every leaf,

a hymn in the hum of bees

and the quiet rustle of grasses bending

beneath the weight of the wind.

.

Each stone speaks

of ages beyond counting,

holding the memory of rivers

that once sang across its surface,

whispering stories of a Creator

who sculpted the earth with love.

.

The sycamore tree,

its bare branches stretching skyward,

offers a lesson in resilience—

to shed, to stand tall,

to endure even when winter comes.

.

The sky writes its verses

in streaks of gold and lavender,

and the sparrow,

small yet unyielding,

sings the refrain of trust:

even the smallest is held.

.

I walk the earth,

its soil soft beneath my feet,

its air thick with God’s presence.

This world is a sacred manuscript,

its verses penned in bark and stone,

its pauses found in still waters.

.

Let us pause long enough to read it,

to trace its lines with reverent hands,

to hear the echoes of the divine

in the wildness and the quiet.

.

For here, in nature’s poetry,

is the voice of the Maker,

calling us back to wonder,

back to grace.

A Haiku

.

Bare sycamore stands,

winter whispers through its limbs

grace in quiet roots.

.

©️ 2024 Christina Whalen