Frogs, prayers, place for everything

Last night, I could no longer read another newspaper or another columnist explaining the predicament of world markets, the dysfunction of the Congress, or prognosticate about which presidential candidate should be doing what. So I went through my collection of "Dwellings," the poems and paragraphs sent by my friend, Karen, to all of her friends over the years (I now have more than 500 stored in my email). I found many wonderful gems. Here's one she sent three years ago, marking the season and more: 

Place

Bernardo Taiz

Inside an open rose

A tree frog

no bigger

than my thumbnail.

I try to imagine

rest like that,

tucked

in such a bed of petals.

I try to imagine

prayer like that,

listening

so intently

in the early light

and

saying so little.

The summer

teeters

now

into old age,

as do I,

those blackberries

that still cling

to their thorny arms

withering,

readying themselves

to trust the earth again,

where,

for a moment

at least,

there is a place for everything.