I wrote this one for July's Granary gathering.
On this rolling, tumbling trail
where there is only a small space between here and the grove
and barely enough time for the Spirit of Christ
to show through the eyes of a convicted felon,
we spread truth still, sending it to pasture in meadows of rice grass
sown and tended by none,
with blades of no width,
and roots of less depth on the breeze.
It’s often a tree blown down or
an umbrella torn from the café table;
but through a child’s eyes,
the beat goes down and the melody comes up
day after day after day after day-
just remember to dust off and oil up the tools
as the harvest comes on…
Soil, bones, and tears of at least 31 flavors
become loam for our conjoined dream
that increases in strength and vibrance with each night=
an alternate reality in a place grown weary of bragging rights and plastic bins-
Meanwhile, we are yet removing garden rocks and ruined wood,
building forts and making hay
while Autumn’s cool seems far off.