A Sigh Of Shrouds

Cara and I were camping in the forest;

by a clear and roaring stream we set up camp.

The dark night and cold, grey morning misty,

the leaves and grass, the air, our faces, damp.

She bathed naked in the stream, the sun away,

hiding it’s face, like God would, behind grey clouds.

The waters were cold, but they carried away her sins,

and she was naked in spirit, clean, not a sigh of shrouds.

At night, through the mesh of the uncovered tent roof,

she lay her head on my shoulder, and we watches stars crawl

across the night sky, clear and whole, with the cities far away.

Even in the sky, angels hide their breaths behind an illuminated shawl.

But after she is asleep, curled into a ball, muttering as she dreams,

filled with wonders I’d not yet found or accepted in grace,

I sat by the campfire. Like Mercury, only my face has light and warmth.

This strange season a whisper, heard only in such a quiet, lonely place.

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