a path that wanders through the dunes
roots of old beech trees protrude
this little woods is a way station
to warblers on their spring migration north.
Today a way station to me.
As I walk along, I shed off the clamor of daily demands
and put on the lovely garment of solitude.
The air is filled with the varied vocabulary of birds;
painted turtles slowly crane their necks to see
who walks by. Proud geese parents let their
goslings approach for a handout of seed;
a few ponds with Lilly pads reflect nearby trees and clouds.
Dear Lord, be my solitude
as I must leave this place;
like the tiny warbler let me fly quickly
and alight on your outstretched arm.