• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 07

Of this I am sure


The plaintive call
of mourning doves
& meadow grass
rustling in
gentle breeze.

I am sure
of newly-shorn
sheep’s wool,
cow’s fresh,
sweet milk,
the bustle of
Saturday market.

I am sure
of indigo clouds
in the western sky,
rumble of thunder,
promise of rainbows.

Most of all, I feel sure
of your small solid body,
pressed against mine, our fingers
intertwined, your silky head
tucked under my chin,
soft voice prattling
with the brook,
sighing into sleep
as the sun warms
my upturned face.