At the first of morning, before work begins,
me and Emily Jane walk in the dim, damp mist.
The second growth forest, the call of singing birds,
the dark, dark ink of the cross on her pale wrist.
We say nothing, their is only the cool and quiet.
A little creek runs beneath us, reminds me of childhood.
A still, quiet voices whispers in the air, and I can almost
feel close to The Spirit in her, that I’ve scarcely ever understood.
She turns to me, takes me hands into her own, and bows her head
and in murmurs and whispers she prays over us, this new day.
I bow my head, and feel at peace, before the war begins again,
I wish I was always with her in these moments, that innocence could stay.
Oh it’s cold, it must be the end of October.
The leaves are red, the plants have wilted,
and I shiver with you, my precious retriever,
to keep me company, keep me warm, sane.
The men are maggots, feeding on the corpse
of the world and all we ever managed to build.
You, buddy, and my daddy’s AR-15, to keep them
back, and my legs to get away. I run like the wind.
Men take anything they can, anyway they can.
You, buddy, the only male I trust, hiding with me.
These forests that were Eden when I was young.
Will they keep me safe now, hide me away now?
You and me, buddy, hiding in this barn tonight.
Still hay inside, soft and sheltering, better than the ground.
I know the sun and the stars and how to follow.
The angels in the sky, to lead me somewhere better.
Where men aren’t beasts. Where I can sleep innocent.
The old and ruined church in the woods,
open to the sun and the stars, and overgrown
and verdant with ivy, kudzu and flowers.
A place of worship forgotten, used by people
long gone, it is taken by nature, and nature is God,
and God is awesome and always wiping us away.
Solitude, the cool, moist and misty morning,
the babble of the little clear brook, and silence,
allowing a small, still voice to speak.
In the wind, I feel something, in this left behind
and more righteous cathedral, that is more than
breath and blood.
A moment, and then the world comes in, and
breath and blood is all I am, simply human,
still longing to touch something behind the air.
And I think of a long past lover, and a November
evening, in youth and freedom and a gaudy city,
and if in those soft kisses, did our souls really touch?