Just as I imagined
the space surrounding you
is uncluttered and solid,
a contrast of gold and black,
like the lightness and darkness
behind your eyes.
Was it for the things
you carried so many times
that this life calls to you?
A life on the Roman roads,
of tents and shields;
a field of rice tinged with blood,
and the smoke of gunpowder;
a forest filled with prayer,
faith used as a weapon.
The many battles,
the many taken,
the many lost.
Here, you root and grow.
Your hands do simple work,
surrounded by all you passed
on road after road:
hives of bees,
fields of wheat,
houses with beds and tables
and chairs with four legs.
You lay this life down
as an altar to whatever
domestic gods gather about you.
Fine offerings of honey,
of spice and soil,
of wax and feather,
of egg and grain.
All these things are,
as the gifts of Able,
pleasing in the eyes of the Lord.
Forgiveness
comes from out of the earth,
each tender shoot
a sign of absolution.