[Jim Ramsey]

Version 2

Sanctity

Sometimes, when I take an evening stroll,
and a deer steps from the edge of woods, and we join eyes,
or a cottontail zigzags slowly through clover unafraid, or
industrious bees have stayed late at work
digging pollen from the rhododendron blooms
along the creek’s roll of shoulder,
I do not hear the city behind me,
or mind the animals’ unnatural familiarity.

Sometimes, after a day sold away to fools,
a day of stacking boxes filled with rules,
then looking up to clouds petaling pink
against the evening’s blues, and listening
to the cadence of the bending grass, I pray
for my chance to chase and catch right words.


Version 1

Sanctity

Sometimes, when I take an evening stroll,
and a deer steps from the edge of woods, and we join eyes,
or a cottontail zigzags slowly through clover unafraid, or
industrious bees have stayed late at work
digging pollen from the rhododendron blooms
along the creek’s roll of shoulder,
I do not hear the city behind me,
or mind the animals’ unnatural familiarity.

Sometimes, after a trying day of wasted thought,
after opening stacked boxes of stale time,
after looking up to clouds petaling salmon
against a purpling sky, after listening
to my own footfalls cadencing through grass,
I bow my head and have no need of chasing words.