I will find you in the wheat.
My poetry is simple, lord. Forgive me that.
When I close my eyes that final time,
my chest falling in the last exhalation,
I will wake there,
in the rolling golden-green field,
the dry earth scorched in my nose.
The sun here is hot
on my cheeks and bare shoulders.
Overhead, black wings cut the sky
in slow, lazy circles, feather tips
delicately contoured against
the bright azure sky.
Mars Ultor, domine, pater meum,
I will meet you in the field, where you watch over your house
and rejoice in all the sweetness of your children.
I will walk with bare feet ‘cross the warm sand
and lie down with you in the long grass,
that I might feel the quiet welling patience
of you watching, your strength ever near.