Serenade

We sang as the sun continued homeward

and the stars peeked out. Tall pine trees encircled

us and stretched up. In the distance, the lake

whispered reverently against the shore. We held

hands in an ever-growing circle and listened

as our words rose like the fireflies flickering

in the dark, their lightness only visible for a moment.

We were witnesses to beauty meant for a delight

far greater than our own. I wish to worship like those fireflies.

They know no sacred text, no proper gestures,

no rigid church walls. All of creation is their holy space.

I wonder at the boldness of these creatures’ radiance;

their light is never too shallow, too temporary,

too extravagant. It is a sacrament of its own,

an offering of what little they have. I wish

for my existence to be a serenade just as it is.

I wish to worship again like we did on those mid-July

Friday nights when the songs from our circle joined

the praise of the fireflies and the stars and the trees,

when the woods were our holy space and the leaves

our stained glass, when to breathe, to exist, was worship.

Piper Daleiden