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.