And Then, Home Again

The cows forgive us our trespasses

with their dark Buddha eyes

as we track through the warm wet

of pasture grass. There is no word

to distill the perfume that is bird,

that is bovine, that is earth and green,

that is flowering rot, that is manure.

I will name its shimmer, Holy Ghost.

I will sing its praise as fat bees I once feared

bump from clover to ragweed to goldenrod

and then, home again. The fox who played the role

of Lucifer in last night’s opera is this morning’s archangel,

fur shining like a Sunday morning portrait of Jesus

as katydids thrum their Sacred Harp hymns,

and yes, it is spring, and the cows are brown

and white with a smattering of crow shades

all gathered in a lowing circle of prayer,

and I say, intercessor, and you say, lamb,

and the strawberries you picked

are warm and ripe and not too sweet.