Grace in the Grass

Stand here beside me now

where the trail slides between

mountain and creek.

Close your eyes and please

tell me the difference

between the sound of

water tripping on stones

to our left, melted snow

trying out new feet,

and the sound of 

Bristlecone Pines

up the hillside on our right,

combing tangles from

the toddling spring wind

as it passes.

Any ideas?

If you’d like an 

even bigger challenge,

teach me the difference

between all of this and

God’s sweet voice,

the sound of grace

rolling in the grass,

purring.

not brand new

The man at the 

hardware store 

tells me,

brand new, 

the thing I need

will cost an amount

greater than 

the smudged sum

in my checkbook,

but I live in

Machine World

with rules I

cannot ignore,

to wit: disrepair 

is not an option,

which is why

today I trace

the topography

in this junkyard,

and follow an

outcropping of

consumer sediment

which the woman

in the shack by the gate

told me might contain

the fossil I seek –

not brand new—

it’s a sad stratigraphy

of discarded dreams

and relic prosperity,

mounded moraine

deposited here by

the endless freeze

and thaw gripping

the material world:

a window sill

air conditioner

stripped of copper,

an assortment of hub caps

made for cars long ago

thrown into the lake of fire,

a Maytag washer

rusting behind the

wizard’s curtain,

and a hundred other things

I hold into sunlight

at every possible angle

before tossing them back

to finish their journey

to the sea

without me.