by Becky Parker

On the mossy grass, where 
wild onions and dandelions grow freely; 
I placed my rickety chair, gathered 
my afghan around my shoulders,
and settled in; my mind a chaotic blur.
A sun beam’s ray clung fearlessly to my bare legs.
The sound of the nearby brook calmed my spirit,
and I closed my brimming eyes.

Reflecting on this past year,
of hardships and losses that sprouted 
deep within me
a frailty, a hesitancy, anxiety, 
and self doubt.

Looking up to the heavens; I prayed,  
Precious Lord, take my hand. Lead me on, help me stand. I am tired.
I am weak; I am worn. Thro’ the storm, thro’ the night, lead me on 
to the light. Take my hand, Precious Lord, lead me home.”

Above me, a blue bird chirps a mating call,
steadfast in its beckoning, confident in a response.
I am reminded that though seasons of life change; 
my Creator’s love remains constant. 

         For me, the blue bird sings.

Hymn: Words; Thomas A. Dorsey, 1899
Music: George N Allen, 1812-1877

Becky Parker is a writer in Tennessee. She has been published in Spirit Fire Review, Agape Review, Appalachia Bare, the Potato Soup Journal, the Rye Whiskey Review, Yellow Mama, Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal and upcoming in North Dakota Quarterly.