Saturday, July 12, 2008

Watered Ground

When water hits the sidewalk edge early on a Saturday morning, there is a smell that hits the back of the nose.

Still fresh. Still ancient. Familiar. Comfortable. The nose remembers in deep ways. Grandmother. Father. Deep woods. Cut grass. Saturday sidewalks like beads. Ephemeral prayer. I would grasp it if I could. Carry it in my pocket. For those times.

There is certain joy. Uncertain swallow. Assurance.

Can I, if I could remember, smell the dinosaurs? Or the muck at the edge of that water where we emerged and shook off our gills and fins?

Keep this Sabbath. It is good. Says the Lord.


FranIAm said...


it's margaret said...

Amen --!!! Again!
blessings Franiam

Jane R said...

Beautiful, Margaret. Thank you.

Kirstin said...

I love this!