Everyday Worship

It’s the small things, isn’t it?

The delicate, embroidered daisies

on the sash-ends of her Sunday yellow dress,

the honest dirt under his fingernails,

the small pink whorl of a baby’s ear.

What of the worm tunneling the soil,

the flight of the barn swallow,

the draining green in autumn

that shows a leaf’s true color?

There should be reverence for the buttercup,

the flash of sunlight on the rippling pond,

the call of the whippoorwill in the pulsing dark.

Whether man made the Sunday gods

to blame or revere matters little,

for even without the whole living, breathing mass

of us to notice them, the little things

would fill the empty spaces.