Pines
Pines bristle with it.
Stones endure with it.
I come to the foothills meadow
to sit with it.
For here is another sight
that so fits the tumblers of the heart
that it unlocks the binding bands.
Enormous slabs of rock lean skyward
trimmed with Douglas-fir and ponderosa
just behind the trees that rim this meadow—
a tufted pelt of grasses—tawny, russet, green.
And over all of this and through the blue sky
the sun pours out its syrups of light.
We know that each of us
is but a story that tells itself
within the play of eros and hunger.
But at certain moments we call good or true or beautiful,
as on a morning in a foothills meadow,
the story stops. The way reveals itself.
And, more intimate than breathing,
we fall inward toward the arms of grace.
