As a child, I had a patron saint,
St. Theresa of Lisieux, the Little Flower.
The saint of small things:
a washed dish, raked leaves,
clothes hung on the line,
these things a prayer.
Sometimes I remember
that my life is like all others,
the past gone, the present here,
the future, what future?
Sometimes I remember
to look for the present
under the pepper tree.
There I find a green prayer
in the rustle of leaves,
a brown one, as silent bugs
burrow in dry earth,
or white, like the cat,
stretched warm in the sun,
still, on the stone wall.
~~ Tere Sievers ~~