Good Morning, Compass

Do you not love this child here
Who longs to have you point to there?
Toward a blade of grass
Where there is sunny solitude.

What creatures are there to grab her feet?
To take her to the wandering deep.

But the strength to fight them
That’s the wonderful thing—
The calmest ocean,
The brightest beam,
Compass, can you find me?


Gratitude at a Funeral

A person can live like that oak tree
Back home on the family farm,
Familiar and, seemingly, unstoppable.

Year after year, growing and ingesting
The metal of an old chain. At one time
It had been a ladder for the boys on Sundays,
Dripping from their swim
In a nearby pond. They climbed that tree,
Looking for angels.

If you walk far enough along your wrinkles,
You’ll, eventually, come upon an angel’s house.

There is gratitude at a funeral,
It isn’t loud or obvious. It’s more gentle
Like the nuzzle of a horse’s nose
Or a breeze brushing the heavy tops of tall grasses,
Creating the waves of something kind,
A softness of mercy, like the wind
Nowhere and yet, everywhere.