The Dead

- for Galen

I have come to 

where the dead live

because they have a

fondness for silence

and pauses between

words.

The sloping green

hills of this place

are still enough – are

peaceful enough –

that the great

blue heron does not

feel a need to leave.

It sits there,

silent

and still –

undisturbed.

Every cubic inch

of this place seems

steeped in a sacredness

of space that hallows

what it touches.

This dirt is worthy

of holding our pain.

There are bruised

and tender portions

of life that ache

so badly and render

us so paralyzed

that only tears

can be found

on the landscape.

This place makes

that holy.

This is a place

that you could lean

and “loafe” at ease

and find yourself

made whole.

Every blade of

grass here is

formed from this

soil and this air

and leans into

the fabrication of

my soul – of

my being.