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.