Worship Service Poem by W.I. Stoneberger

The trees in the backyard
were all talking,
a prayer meeting of elders.
They looked down below,
surveying the space surrounding them.
Branched bowing low to the ground
then stretching up tall again,
scraping the edges of the sky
whispering into the wind.
The sound was a form of worship,
a pine psalm.
It swirled along the trails of twilight,
sanctifying a Spring evening
with its symphony.
The trees tossed back their heads.
Mockingbirds and starlings scattered,
sending needles sailing.
A slow and soft rain
swooping and spiraling down,
settling upon the altar
- Earth's breast,
settling among the azalea roots
the emergence of iris and indigo,
settling into a stillness
surrounding a Sunday.