Restoration

Suddenly you notice 4 or 5 stalks of grasses,

golden and green, each one unique,

swaying and nodding, surrounding your head

as you laze on this earth near the lake

on Sunday alone. They seem modest,

standing at attention in unearned service

to you.

Thanks are offered, once they’ve been seen,

for their protection and care, their

restorative dancing in breezes

and beams of sunlight so thin,

while smiling quietly you inhale sky, 

swallow cool air, praise these birds

of water and trees for their ongoing din,

turn your bony skull over and over

searching for comfort, for home, 

on edges emerging from half-buried stones. 

      Next

Sometimes the next  

necessary step to take

is to stop,

not to step at all,

but to lie down

on cool grasses

near the edge of a lake,

eyes closed, listening to clouds,

tasting wind, cradled by earth,

or to stand still at an arched doorway

next to a tall stranger,

a woman with short brown hair,

where together you face

an unseen inside of perhaps

an ancient church for as long

as it takes,

until either Silence whispers

its subtle language of trembling delight 

or every footprint is swept away,

erased finally in rambling floodwaters

of surprise as a river of fire arises,

wildly flows rousing every cell,

muscle, and shy desire

of your bodies’ once quiescent futures

towards whatever happens
to become
next.