on beech logs destined for my woodstove
I sat one summer morn, sipping tea,
young, robust, with Whitman in my hand
surrounded by wild fields dotted with scrub
the  mist would fill the valley during the night
then dissipate steadily away as the day progressed
I stood witness, it is a high definition memory
if there is a heaven it is a meadow
and the air will be filled with the sweetness
of the grass and the wildflowers
that absorbed the sunshine
under the tree swallows loop de loops
on a morning that I still touch this very day