Communion
My first cathedral was black sky
and stars. I sat on the garden wall
at fifteen, dwelling in wonder
and silence, our rural cul-de-sac
so recently a field—soil stripped
to bald clay an illusion of newness.
I didn’t try to decipher constellations,
describe the cool stone beneath me,
or map words to the expanse and glimmer.
I kept communion with my smallness
inside the world. I didn’t need to name
anything, not even myself.
*
My Daughter Gives a Master Class on Walking in the Rain
Opt for every puddle. Be kind
to fallen leaves. Weave a trail
of song along the sidewalk.
Feel each drop: cheek, nose,
eyelid. Hear them prick
the pavement and call it music.
Greet the half-petaled sunflowers.
Remember where you once saw
a dead raccoon. Say you loved
that raccoon. Use your pink t-shirt
as a tissue. Be the opposite
of hurried. Gift your attention
to the gift of the world.
*
Emily Patterson (she/her) is the author of three chapbooks, and her debut full-length collection, The Birth of Undoing, is forthcoming with Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in 2025. Nominated for Best Spiritual Literature and multiple Pushcart Prizes, Emily’s work is published or forthcoming in North American Review, SWWIM, Christian Century, Rust & Moth, Cordella Magazine, CALYX, and elsewhere. She lives with her family in Columbus, Ohio. Read more at emilypattersonpoet.com.