The Church of Tree

A ladybug hitched a ride and
napped for a time in the crook of my fingers,
waiting for its stop at the green place.

Funnel spiders build their homes
on the ground,
tubes of silk
woven with bits of duff on the outside.
They can tell a prying blade of grass
is not prey.

The belly of a cicada
has pointy bits for the sucking of sap,
and its wings are the most delicate lingerie.

California violets are yellow.

I felt hallelujah at the Church of Tree.

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