The Liturgy of the Marsh: Mindful Spirituality in Nature

When I grow weary of the sharp-tongued world

of men grown callous, bloated with self

of truth unspooling into knotted lies

of indifference, slack and drifting

of cruelty, bright-edged as a blade

I slip away to hear the liturgy of the marsh

Go to the small brown rabbit who grazes

by the path in quiet sweetness

Turn aside to breathe in honeysuckle perfume

as dragonflies stitch light across the soft, moist air

Behold the night heron among the reeds

still as marble, intent on the water:

patience given flesh and feather

Heed the cicadas in the cypress limbs

pulsing a dry percussion in the heat

Consider the prodigal starthistle

which opens its lavender blooms in June

then scatters its seeds to the wind in July

Lift up your eyes from the pond’s still serenity

to the sky and trees gathered in its glass

Have you ever summoned an ounce

of the spunk of the sunshine mimosa

lifting its pink, electric crown

a thumbprint spark of wild delight

alone in an ocean of green

Dig deep to find within yourself

the brazen wit of the whistling duck

posed so prim upon its branch

then opening its bill to voice

its rubber cousin's squeak

Can you command the stubborn grace

of the swamp rose who bursts forth with

snow-bright petals and gold-lit heart

her roots in black water thriving

where gentler sisters fail

It eases me to leave the tumult at the kitchen door

the headlines resting in a quiet stack on the table

to remember, if only for an hour

that the untamed do not strain to become Other

do not imagine worry can hold the world together

Instead, each simply is

And perhaps

this is my calling

to be

to belong

and that is gift enough

June 2026

---

If you’ve read much of my poetry over the past ten years, you’ll recognize my favorite walking trail in the restored wetlands park near my home. (Don’t miss the photos below, especially if you’re curious what on earth a “sunshine mimosa” is. Hint: it won’t appear on the menu for Sunday brunch.)

When people from other parts of the U.S. or the world picture Texas, they often imagine the dry western half from cowboy movies. But Texas is a huge state with many landscapes and climates, and Southeast Texas — where I grew up and where Houston sits — has far more in common with Louisiana than with West Texas. This has been a particularly wet spring (see last month’s gully‑washer poem), which is wonderful for my butterfly garden and for the thick, springy carpet of St. Augustine grass… as well as for the mosquitos. The heat and humidity are also wonderful for your skin and for fogging your glasses, if not for people whose hair tends toward frizz.

But I digress.

What I really want to say is that while the marsh is a special landscape for me, I’ve lived in others, and each has its own kind of beauty. What matters most, when communing with nature, isn’t grand vistas or postcard‑worthy “money shots,” but simply paying attention with curiosity and love. Listening to all the sounds. Pausing to peer closely at something hanging from a tree, a spiderweb, or a fuzzy caterpillar crossing the sidewalk. People may give you funny looks; let them. Or better yet — especially if there are children nearby — say, “Hey, you wanna see something cool?”

Mindful spirituality in nature is sorely needed in today's troubled world. There really is wonder, and even a kind of holiness and kinship found in creation. You just have to take the time to see it.

cypresses' still pond

honeysuckle

yellow-crowned night heron

starthistle

sunshine mimosa

black-bellied whistling ducks

swamp rose