All Their Voices

Words and thoughts in devotion to the Divine

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Song for Pomona

There is nothing like the sweetness of an apple.

It is not cloying like chocolate,

strong like honey,

or sharp like wine.

Crisp and light, it sings on the tongue,

and that song is the name of its Maker.

Pomona, fair one, rosy-cheeked,

fed on sunlight and sweet rain,

Your kindness in sharing your gift

with us is beyond compare.

Each bite announces itself with a crunch,

proof of its goodness and firmness,

and the further goods we make from your gift

–juice, cider, pastry–

feed us and quench our thirst throughout the year.

In thanks we praise your name,

in reverence we sing of your glory,

and in gratitude we ask only to be permitted

to partake of your gifts so long as we may live.


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In the Greenwood


Lurking in the shadows of the woods,
I see You there, Silvanus,
running with the deer,
standing guard over the badger’s sett,
Your face dappled with light
where thin rays of sun
break through the cage
of the smallest branches of the treetops.

Your crown is oak and ivy,
Your brow garlanded with these sweet leaves;
singing birds flit in a halo round Your head,
and You walk barefoot through
the thickest tangles of thorn and briar.

The fox is lulled to sleep in Your lap,
the bear sleeps curled up at Your feet,
and the serpent twines round Your ankles,
unmoved to bite and share his venomed kiss.

All the forest opens to You,
wild god, fierce god, great god,
sharing with You its secret heart,
and You, its secret heart.

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To Flora


They tell us in school: from you, we get flowers,
and by that, of course, they mean that your name
is the root of that word,
but the literal is true, too.
In spring: lilacs, apple blossom, lily-of-the-valley,
tulips and grape hyacinth,
(yes, and dandelions too, humble as they are,
and violets scattered through the grass like a child’s toys,)
and all of it exquisite.
I inhale their perfume, drawing into my lungs
the scent of seed and exhaled oxygen,
and thank each plant for that bliss,
(for how intimate a gift, sharing breath
with another living creature,)
but when I say “Thank you”
to the rose or iris or honeysuckle,
I know that I am also thanking You.