The strip along the flat of the highway
where the neighbor cut hay two weeks ago
shows yellow in the low light of this damp dawning.
In the pasture between the road and the creek,
the deeper green of dew-drenched fescue
spreads between the fences.
Hardwoods bulge above the bluff,
a rounded mound of elm and oak
beyond the cottonwoods and sycamores
that line the winding of the stream
along the seam of limestone cuts,
hard juts of ragged edges above the smooth stones
that bed the ebbing run toward the river.
Halfway to the top of the hill,
bridging across the pale gravel
between the woods on either side
of Randolph Road,
a single seam of mist hangs
its thin gray form in this gentle morning,
like a tender touch laid upon your arm
in the quiet of a funeral home,
a soft voice speaking peace
through the gloam of sadness,
love breaching the gaps
between life’s rough branches,
cushioning the feel of harsh stone
against bare flesh.