Pine Needles

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for pine needles.
They begin soft, small,
bright green. New life
at the tips of aged branches,
pushing last year’s needles
from youth to middle age.

Blessed are You
for brown needles,
falling,
carpeting the forest floor,
muffling running hoofs,
holding moisture for growing things.

Indigenous peoples
form these thinnest of leaves
into baskets, mats, art.
Mourning doves
pluck them from the ground
to balance them in bushes or trees,
making slipshod nests to hold eggs,
then baby birds—
dead needles witness new life.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the life of a tree needle,
and for its death.
It surrenders, not knowing
whether it will become dirt
on the forest floor
or something new
in the hands of a child
or the beak of a bird.

May I, too, trust death
to bring life,
and allow respect
to mingle with fear
of the unknown.