A moment of understanding

when the face lights up

and even the trees seem to kneel.

The mossy ground

below a huge willow

by the side of the marsh.

Children who come

with white faces

and turn pink

in the sun.

 

The sound of sawing in the woods

and the long lone hum

of a boat bearing lumber

down the Hudson.

The sudden deer in the trees,

a streak of white tail

and the hoof prints

filling with water.

 

The sound of voices

rounding out with grace,

with trust.

And rosehip tea steaming in the sun.

How many times we threw off our shoes

and danced together,

the cool ground under our soles.

And the mud! churned by feet, and horses,

ox-carts and cows.

The open throats

and closed eyes,

that red ringing

inside my heart.

 

And mornings that Lucy sang

making breakfast,

snatches of hymns

stuck together.

 

The long, quiet time of waiting.