A Drop of Water: Opening Acclamation

A drop of water.
Insignificant in isolation.
When dropped in a pool
The ripples move out into infinity
The water is changed
By one drop of water.

A drop is falling
Now
Into the pool of our spirit.
The water begins to ripple...

Holy God,
as we consider the magnitude of a drop of water
to touch and change the pool,
may we hear the power of your touch in our lives,
the potential for our lives to touch others. Amen.

--Katherine HawkerSelf, member of the UCC, posted on Liturgies Outside. http://liturgyoutside.net/CPr5.html

The Slip

The river takes the land, and leaves nothing.
Where the great slip gave way in the bank
and an acre disappeared, all human plans
dissolve. An aweful clarification occurs
where a place was. Its memory breaks
from what is known now, and begins to drift.
Where cattle grazed and trees stood, emptiness
widens the air for bird flight, wind, and rain.
As before the beginning, nothing is there.
Human wrong is in the cause, human
ruin in the effect-- but no matter;
all will be lost, no matter the reason.
Nothing, having arrived, will stay.
The earth, even, is like a flower, so soon
passeth it away. And yet there's nothing
is the seed of all—heaven’s clear
eye, where all the worlds appear.
Where the imperfect has departed, the perfect
begins its struggle to return. The good gift
begins again its descent. The maker moves
in the unmade, stirring the water until
it clouds, dark beneath the surface,
stirring and darkening the soul until pain
perceives new possibility. There is nothing
to do but learn and wait, return to work
on what remains. Seed will sprout in the scar.
Though death is in the healing, it will heal.



-- Wendell Berry (1934-2026), American poet, teacher, farmer, essayist, and agrarian

Ah, Ah

for Lurline McGregor


Ah, ah cries the crow arching toward the heavy sky over the marina.
Lands on the crown of the palm tree.

Ah, ah slaps the urgent cove of ocean swimming through the slips.
We carry canoes to the edge of the salt.

Ah, ah groans the crew with the weight, the winds cutting skin.
We claim our seats. Pelicans perch in the draft for fish.

Ah, ah beats our lungs and we are racing into the waves.
Though there are worlds below us and above us, we are straight ahead.

Ah, ah tattoos the engines of your plane against the sky—away from these waters.
Each paddle stroke follows the curve from reach to loss.

Ah, ah calls the sun from a fishing boat with a pale, yellow sail. We fly by
on our return, over the net of eternity thrown out for stars.

Ah, ah scrapes the hull of my soul. Ah, ah.


-- Joy Harjo (1951- ), poet laureate of the US, member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation, teacher, musician, and native Tulsan, from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems:1975-2001

Lord, you are my island

Lord, you are my island.

In your bosom I rest.

You are the calm of the sea.

In that peace I lie.

You are the deep waves of the ocean.

In their depths I stay.

You are the silence of the spheres.

In that space I live.

You are the smooth white strand of the shore.

In its swell I sing.

You are the ocean of life that laps my being.

You are the Lord of my life.

In you is my eternal joy.

--Ray Simpson, from 40 Prayers from Celtic Christianity, 2014