Poetry

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Pushing through the noisy wood immersed in the
sounds of silence at each place I stand and rest
along the invisible path,
I follow faded footsteps of gone and not forgotten feet, that nevermore will bend the grass along the Way...toward...
the place where all hearts and hurts finally meet, in a cloistered grove, to say goodbye to another love.

In the fields the children play,
Unaware - unaware of another Day.

Emerald leaves paw the mystic air, grasping
clawing for safety there -
Clutching at emptiness, nothingness, sobbing for a return caress - a Spiritual hand to comfort them.

But the tender breeze pushes the leaves away, and the branches say - not today - not today.

We gather in the grove, cleaned and mown, closed doors laid in rows, looking at the Now - and wonder - what was before - for those behind the doors.

In the fields the children play,
Unaware - unaware of another Day.

I listened - he seemed to say, the house I built - with peppercorn lease - the cultivation of hard, harsh land by sweat of brow, had been my lot by Celestial plot. I didn't know why - perhaps I would bye and bye,
But then I would work and die.

We roam the grove, looking at the doors - wondering - asking -
We linger in the grove within the breeze –

In the fields the children play,
Unaware - unaware of another Day.

Behind stone doors each rests alone - save one -
John Morrison (Weaver).
On his door a sign etched in stone - hand pointing heavenward -
Gone Home!

We leave -
through silent wood, immersed in the sounds of whispered questions - answered.
Along the invisible path
toward New Jerusalem -

In the field the children play
Unaware - unaware of another Day.

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