Crickets are somewhere and their nests too.
Juncos, goldfinches, wrens,
go on with their journeys.
Today, only the majestic pine, oak and beech,
deep into it, looking up, they cover the sky.
I do not know if this is their intention.
They still have to listen to God, don’t they?
The way they devote and build their way up;
branches, sprigs, boughs, leaves,
layers on top of layers;
still let birch stick in between,
still let light seeping through
as they exhale and inhale;
breathing, meditating, listening,
and praying by the book.
© Livingston Rossmoor
Livingston Rossmoor‘s poetry has recently appeared in The Lyric, Poetry Quarterly, California Quarterly (California State Poetry Society), Ibbetson Street, Time of Singing poetry journal and Chronogram magazine.