I can look from on top, or below

the cliff edge where I can see the wind

by the flowing blonde hair of pasture

punctuated by rock and rare tree.


I can notice there is no chance for

these things to remain hidden, the smooth

blue-grey of a persimmon tree, the

flaked body of an elm or pecan

the grandmotherly presence of a

large oak holding everything inside

her thick skin made of time and earth.


Not hidden from the reverent eyes of

those standing here, all knowing the same

truth yet remaining quiet, that wanting

of earth movers, hydraulic hoses,

and barbed wire fences stand beyond

the horizon with their metallic grin

unable, or unwilling to see

what the sky shows us everyday; that


there is always something else to do

with such time here, like move softly, as

clouds, spending brief moments, leaving only

shadows as proof, deciding in an

instant that there is no deciding.

Everything seen is temporary,

but especially temporary

to me, and a new day will bring new

eyes that can do unspeakable harm

to these quiet leaves swaying, leaving

Death’s footprint across the last pore of

a home we have never known.


For the first time grieving before the

last breadth speaks words of consolation;

that there is Christ-like forgiveness and

the tomb of our sins will not hold such

potential forever, yet we must

endure the separation for a

time, and the deep suffering in the

wanting of such passion that slips through

the fingers of weak hands, floating up,

like a prayer into the sinew of


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