• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 07

Pastoral Madonna

Eyelids close, you sit in a meadow where
a murder of crows speckle saffron fields…
cows and horses grazing in the distance.

A child lays into your protective body,
head tilted toward grey skies noticing
marveling at a double rainbow’s dozen colors.

Like a pastoral Madonna, your rust brown
veil covers parted auburn hair. Modest.
Unassuming. Common. Immaculate.

Perambulating spheres hide behind clouds
rain-heavy, while you press together digits
murmur prayers, hum ethereal harmonies.

Please dust off volumes of love poems
that have rested on your lap unread too long…
free your meditative mind, sanctify my words.

May tertiary winds loosen your headscarf,
massage earthly thoughts without restraint
requite both our hearts with impulsive psalms.