My words become lost
in the rush of autumn’s breeze
—lost in belonging.
In a clearing, two
empty chairs face where
empty
souls might sit and fill.
Overcast skies love
by making colors even:
brown, green, gold, red—kind.
A squirrel reigns. The leaves
flutter and obey his will:
scatter and reveal.
Rest leaves and grass.
Share
the space of all things
passing.
Light sings your colors.
Vines peeking through rocks,
make the stony shadows blush
—green to red to ground.
Prayer at the Grotto
Hold me like a bead
between the fingers of one
who prays for her foes.
Poet’s Notes
The above poetry was written during a recent visit to Manresa Jesuit Retreat House in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. The featured image of the main building comes from Digital Commonwealth: Massachusetts Collections Online.
To read another Mormon poem situated in a Roman Catholic setting, try Crashing Eucharistic Adoration.
Wheat & Tares 
Beautiful picture with words and, the last sentence, a good reminder for me, for us in these tumultuous times….
Thanks Jake!
“Prayer at the Grotto
Hold me like a bead
between the fingers of one
who prays for her foes.”
One of the most beautiful lines I have ever read. It might easily be made a part of St. Francis’ prayer.