This Sunday the garden is my cathedral.
Where I can kneel un-masked
among hostas and ferns
and turn my gaze upon Creation,
Third person of the Trinity
Who sows the seeds of Christianity
Buried deep with the Second
in the fertile soil of the earth
prepared by the First,
Master Gardener of our souls.
I contemplate Second’s rising
as I ponder the resurrection
of every living thing that grows
after a long winter of cold and snow.
What prayers are these I offer
in the pantheon of gods of long ago?
The prayers of an immune-compromised
Catholic unable to sit among
un-masked rows of worshippers
kneeling in too-few pews
listening to the Good News
spoken by priests within brick and mortar,
while I kneel in the open-air garden.
My communion is deep if incomplete.
I sign the cross and sigh,
breathing in the energy of the Trinity,
which keeps my soul alive.
annarino writes 