by Deborah Rutherford
SINGING OF THE TREES
“Let the field be joyful, and all that is in it. Then all the trees of the woods will rejoice before the Lord.”
—Psalm 96:12 NKJV
Morning awakens in the mini forest
bordering our back property.
I sway to what sounds like singing.
Branches stretch as if tiptoeing to touch the cloud tips,
while scarlet sprinkles among giant pulled-up roots,
like fossilized huts from another time.
My ankles sink into the spongy meadow,
and in the wood thicket, the fawns appear;
lights flicker and flit—
Sing unto the Lord, all the earth…
The trees sing out!
Oh, glory, oh, Father in Heaven!
Is this the ancient song of the trees that I hear,
a song across the eons, one that first began in the Garden?
Oh, Eden, there you are, where I wonder if Eve slept
on oversized hydrangea petals,
tasting sweet dew drops, lulled by tree lullabies.
And I remember that daunting hike
straight into the heart of East Tennessee—
mist slinking through the understory
as we climbed deep into the forest
on man-made steps carved into the mountain—
twigs and underbrush crackling.
As the water fell, fresh,
candlelit rays filtered through mosaic leaves,
and a holy hymn glided across the canopy.
Then there was an enchanting forest
I once visited, so secluded,
adjacent to a lovely home off the train in France,
on the way to the beach town.
There I was entranced within an emerald cocoon:
a blanket of moss, sprawling oaks
and silver beeches that held out the sky.
Yet, light still fell through their chapel-bone arches,
roots anchored, and right there
I wanted to lie down on the earth's velvet
amid the forest’s lovely litany.
And though Adam and Eve drove us from the garden’s forest
by eating the forbidden fruit,
God had a plan for even this,
as woodlands sing and creation groans in the fallen blue planet,
bringing us the promise of His eternal city
with the restored Tree of Life,
where, in the garden forest,
we and the trees shall sing forever.
Sing unto the Lord—
a never-ceasing praise!
My arms lift high on this beautiful morning, and I wonder:
Might the trees be singing?
Might their ancient song be the first song sung with our Creator in the Garden?
Might Adam and Eve have swayed to this song too?
Might we hear it today if we listen?
Might we hear it in heaven one day?
So many questions to ponder under the bowing beauty
of the sacred sanctuary of these mighty trees.
Sing unto the Lord, all the earth….
The sun flickers and His presence is everywhere.
A LIT MARSH
In the marsh,
moody blues filter through
the sweet-scented sentinels.
The tea-colored bog dusted with duckweed
hosts a slate crane shaking its dripping plume,
thin legs submerged.
Turtles pile upon one another, sunbaking,
as dragonflies buzz;
blackbirds flutter in the deep boughs.
Yellow-green effulgence
spills wide upon
the wetland’s dark beauty—
it is more than mud pies,
horseflies, and geese droppings.
These gilded rays hallow even here,
where life unveils and grace takes root.
And I think about my own sullied places,
and perhaps there is beauty there too,
among my shadows and untended sedges,
where God’s brilliance pours
down the long shaft of my soul,
renewing even my murkiest recesses.
The wind whispers,
lingering in the shining marsh,
where the moss skims across the water,
lamenting a lullaby, yet ready to rejoice,
as I am—
so untroubled among the rushes,
sheltered by high grass, tangled vines,
and sprinkles of wildflowers.
Where woven stalks
bend to each other
as my Lord does with me.
The woodland crown glistens
in the lit marsh;
all becomes bright and
brighter.
An invitation to step into splendor,
declaring God’s glory,
His everlasting Light.
Just then,
I notice two boys and a girl in rain boots,
seeking treasures along the muddy banks.
A mother stands nearby.
Oh, how I wish I had worn my rain boots
to join them in the mud.
RE-ROOTED BY HIS WATERS
“They are like trees planted along a riverbank, with roots that reach deep into the water. Such trees are not bothered by the heat or worried by long months of drought. Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit.”
—Jeremiah 17:8
UNROOTED, I roamed barren dunes
blown asunder by city winds,
tussling amongst decaying foliage
and smashed cigarette packs.
Where the sun sets
on the pagan and God’s faithful,
and for a while longer,
where God blesses both.
HOLLOW, like Sodom’s Apple,
I was filled with dusty webs—dry,
yet so shiny and pretty on the outside—
but when you bit into my fruit,
it was bitter.
UPROOTED, the Lord carried me away on eagle wings
across the desert and over the mountains
to plant me beside His still river.
MY ROOTS dangle in His living water,
deep into the source of life,
to spread out and never to fear again.
ROOTED to be holy every day,
evergreen and forever planted,
delighting in my LORD.
MY FRUIT, sweet of the Lord’s table.
DEBORAH RUTHERFORD
Deborah Rutherford is a poet, author, speaker, and Emmy recipient for her makeup artistry in film and television. Her poem "Dear Lord Only You" was recognized in the Storytellers Poetry Contest. Her debut collection, Prodigal Daughter: Poems of Light for the Lost Ones, reflects her journey of restoration, grace, and hope in Christ. Deborah hosts the Behold-Her Beauty Podcast. She’s been published in The Way Back to Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Calla Press, and Prosetrics. Deborah lives in Georgia with her husband, Don, and enjoys singing old hymns, drinking bold coffee, and walking under the pines.
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