I sigh, putting away my ragged paperback of the Iliad.
There is a black winged moth, resting upon a lily pad.
The calming pool in the courtyard, blooming water lilies.
Eerie beauty in those white flowers, not petulant Achilles.
I think of Felicity, and how she’ll come sit with me, in an hour.
I am flowering ivy in the spring, and she is my white lattice bower.
A fluffy and fuzzy bumble bee crawls into a flower, legs all dusty yellow
Nectar is sweet, and intoxicating, brings blooms, fruit, orange tangelo.
The choir I hear through an open door, sing a piece set to a Psalm.
Comfort in touching God, music, prayer, sweetness of Felicity’s lip balm.
How do we sing of The Lord in a strange land; Earth is all, to us, Strange.
The Spirit, and agape, we make a place here, a tabernacle we momentarily arrange.
For an hour after classes, Felicity and I will hold hands, talk, gently kiss, giggle, blush.
First of spring, Easter here soon, He rises. I hear Him in her voice, and sing thrush.
Sometimes we are silent, and the wind is cool, and the bright, and we are content.
In these quiet, pure moments we are more than flesh, the veil between heaven rent.