My imagination, unruly gift,
comes, I suppose, from God.
(I call her Agnes, to satisfy
my primal need to name the animals.)
She squirrels about in the maple tree
just outside my kitchen window,
flits from branch to branch,
only sits a few seconds to chomp
on some savory something,
then with a flounce, flies off again.
Sometimes she chases another squirrel
(let’s call him Fred) who mysteriously
keeps hanging around, perpetual tease,
never letting himself be captured,
but not wandering too far away.
Why can’t Agnes just sit quietly
in her lovely bower, feel the wind
ruffling her fur, give herself
over to prayer? In such a green and gracious
space, shouldn’t prayer be natural?