The Grieving Poet Walks in the Field

I am trying to remember. How did I heal

After Mama’s death? I have not forgotten

Truth, but a tad, Faith to believe the Truth.

The churches tell me to remember

Where Papa is going. I remember.

To that terrible place—Away.

Words are so mighty, and the churches

Do not know. They pour vinegar

On open wounds, so carelessly, and in

The name of God.

Lord, forgive me. I am weak and bitter.

All the day I yearn for your touch, for your hand

To hold mine, yet I have only to feel

The sharp crests of the grass against my calves.

I know you are Lord of grace and of rain.

Here is all I request: Slip a handful of grace

Into the next rainfall and send a storm.

How my need abounds.