The Church In The Oak Grove
Sunshine shifting, shadows moving,
The day a keeper, comes as perfect April,
Embraces the land,
Spreads its miracle
Like the cloak of St. Brigit of Kildare.
Oaks - straight, tall spiral to cerulean blue.
Air soft and pure calls to broken hearts,
Lives for lost ones and sad children.
High light stone bench on Springtime's tide
Beckons all pagans to sit
In the woodland chapel.
The forest gives its firewood,
Promises berries that ripen -
Manna for the hungry soul.
The heart of earth is fertile;
Spirit water flows in all seasons.
His Holiness emanates -
It's aura a halo of white light which pulsates
In harmony with the clouds.
The King has returned.
His words beg the stricken,
The sick, the searching
To hear and sing praises
To life everlasting,
To our Heavenly home.
Written upon reflection of a day in April
at Wickham Park, Manchester, CT.
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