Stagnant, stuck, stinking without visible rot,
this slow time of no healing.
Heart dulled to stupid,
thought a weedy pasture, river
gone obscenely dry.
No reeds, no fish, no stub of stunted prayer
until a sudden week of rain
of Trumpeter swans—
wind of many wings
a company of skies descending
the noise of God come
to roost a while.
- * *
I lay in the wet grass.
I lay as a poor host blessed by guests.
I lay in brevity among the many who move without hours.
Annie Lighthart
Annie Lighthart began writing poetry after her first visit to an Oregon old-growth forest. Poems from her books Pax and Iron String have been turned into music, used in meditation and healing projects, and traveled farther than she has.