By DON MUNRO
I have this image
of Him and me
in a pasture.
It is bordered on one side by a wall of stones,
dug up from the soil by generations of worriers
Behind us is a narrow dirt road,
protected by Sugar Maples flaming
in their orange clothes.
Some birches are standing close by.
They say things I do not understand
but find pleasant.
And so when they do speak,
I take notice, as if I did know.
The sun reaches inside
me and heals every rawness, all pain.
We sit there,
He and I.
Our arms are about each others shoulders
like two boys
who’ve not yet let the world
fill them with shame.
We gaze across fields
destined to die.
But, for now, they smell
sweet from dewy hay that has been cut and rolled,
waiting for the barn.
Silence is our dialogue.
Some hawks in the sky seem drunk
from the bounty of this last warm day.
They take daredevil plunges toward earth
as they play.
Ghosts who scare themselves once told me
that this love is won only
But this is a myth;
it is not His way.
All I need to do
This is simply enough
and all I ever want.