The Yard

When you were younger,
once young, once slighted,
once forgiving and forgetful.
You stood in the yard
making leafy helicopters flutter
out of the way of summer winds.
And you sang of a sound,
the sound, it sounds, sounds like
the advent of a tradition
long passed in the dark,
darkening clouds.
But it might have been a praise,
"Oh Come! Oh, come. Oh, Jesus.
Oh, come to us."

 

What praises now flee
so many poisoned tongues,
the taste bittering hearts,
as the rain drips solemnly.
It beseeches you this once.
Not once fooled,
not once scorned,
just once aware of the wound.
And you stand in the yard screaming,
"OhGodOhGodOhGod. Oh, my God."

 

Not once would one imagine
the sun browning this grass
or the storm soiling these steps.
What childlike dreams you had
in a sunshine madness,
a gleeful flight from trouble.
Now, in the yard, in the passing years,
a troubled abandonment
of senses and song.
And you might whisper,
"Oh, Jesus. Oh, come to us."
But no scripture, no light notes,
no way to make it over--
not more over than childhood.
No verses, no chorus,
just standing in the yard screaming,
"OhGodOhGodOhGod. Oh, my God."