by Josh Bishop
Above our house an ancient maple spreads
its branches wide to shade in shadow all
that falls below: perennials in reds
and blues and, wearing muted greens, a small
but stubborn bed of hostas which we’ve done
our careless best to kill through sad neglect.
A hum of bees floats lazy in the sun.
Loud squirrels voice their chattered, shrill objections
while the boys play fetch with Chesterton.
And on the table here: John Bunyan’s Grace
Abounding, Baker Street tobacco in
my pipe, two fresh-poured hazy IPAs —
all gifts our Maker made and gave to fill
the earth with joy. Drink deep. Give thanks. Be still.
This poem was published by The North American Anglican on May 17, 2022. The line capitalization in his version has been updated.
Josh Bishop Writes 