The Day She Discovered Dandelions

My religion is in every strangers breath.

My religion is in my daughter's eyes,

her hands curled in mine,

in the bloodline of time.

My religion is in the first snowfall,

bending branches

with quiet white.

My religion runs in the creeks of melting snow,

drifting

downstream.

It's in the rains that come with spring.

My religion is in a silent nod of understanding,

within the circles of friendships gathering.

My religion is in the winds that blow the treetops,

the kailedescope of swaying pines

and the day she discovered dandelions.

It's in the wish at season's end

as she blows her dandelion to the wind.