The tide whispers on the breeze,

lapping the edge of the property line.

The tree with the spade shaped leaves

stands tall and licks the morning rays.

Like muted chimes the green clusters

bump into each other like pickpockets.

Somehow Lake Michigan shows up.

It’s not seen, unless the backdrop of

ice blue skies count as fresh water.

This is a distilled holiness of quiet

bangled soundwaves speaking

in the dialect of God.

I don’t try to decipher, but close my

eyes and bow my ears to the timpani

of grace, then mercy, and dip my

soul’s toe in the majesty

of the mystery.