Rev. Barnaby Feder, Minister
Rev. Barnaby Feder, Minister

Sabbatical Report, Part 1

Winter sun, day’s keel

Above silent whiteness laid

Deep and wide last night on  playing fields.


Released from her leash

Lyra plow-bounds hard away

To the woods, expecting squirrels at least.


I head for the path

More remembered than present,

And sing out through the trees, “Where’s Lyra?”


Rested snow slips down

Now life-filtered, a slow jazz

Of flurry and pauses, and so resounds


A forest praise-song

For intervening branches:

I hear soft thuds, rolls, and grace notes throng.


“Everywhere we rise,”

The trees say. “We make countless

Ways to dawdle, fall, be otherwise.”


They point out Lyra;

She’s sensing something alive,

burrowed into the understory.


No need to hurry

Today, she and they agree.

Stay incomplete, and be.