The Summer Day by Mary Oliver Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper I mean— the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down— Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

The Dance by Sarah Speed I see You here I see You in every living thing and in everything that once lived that is now still. Like the tree who freely bends in the wind, its leaves fluttering and its boughs dancing, rejoicing in the chance to stretch after a long time of standing still it converses with the other trees a slow and timeless praise of life that carries on the wind in a rustling murmur. I know the simplest of prayers: I let go of the built and conformed world and look around, fall down into the grass and inhale the sweet Earth, let her touch me, and I know I am blessed. I kiss her with my feet, and she breathes on me, whispering to me like the trees do to one another. It is my little time here, my short dance, but the dancing of the trees will go on long after I am gone for Your touch is everlasting.