Under the trees,
Spanning a small creek,
Rests an old wood bridge.
About as long as two men—
Lying end to end.
As wide as one man’s arms, outstretched—
Fingertip to fingertip.
It’s a reliable footbridge,
Although it leans a little to the left,
As I head out across it every morning;
And it leans a bit to the right,
On my return home in the evening.
But for all of that, it has no politics of its own,
And cares not a bit about mine.
It simply does its job—
Carrying me to the other side.
It’s built for adventures—
Its aged planks groan and creak underfoot,
With views, through its heartwood,
Rotted away by time, neglect and weather,
Of the water that flows beneath.
Its surface made slick from years of life,
Portends a slip and fall off its tattered edge,
For any impatient traveler who crosses too fast.
It invites one to take it slow,
Enjoy the passage and watch their steps—
Wild salmon swim within its shadow,
A possum or two scurries by,
Scattering the fallen leaves with a rustle,
A moist fragrant smell of earth fills the air,
And time—suspended briefly—
Between what has been, and what will be,
Exhales; and this woodland world holds its breath,
When I cross over the old wood bridge.
Prayerful Life 