Grace

I glance at heart-beating sky,
Pansies giving up evening scent to sunset's peach.

Last spring we tore away the
Cottonwoods invading pond's banks,
Our Edenic glade opening then to
Raw, the earth, stones,
And survival roots.

Now, you know, distress fades
Into deep knowing, and
In the near new distance
A feeling opens without demanding logic.

Color rises into the western ether
And night closes, so soon
Ago the solstice, and
Dreams and currents,
Sweetness
Float
Un-tethered, the

Streaks beyond the forest
Going to pink, and settling, quiet,
Over Seneca's valley.