Poetry may save me
if I am willing —
“And the Word became flesh.”
Christ is known to me this way.
The rustle and moan of vibration
flowing-peace-words of poetry.
I think this-poetry was our first
the smell of rain on a dirt driveway,
the blue and white moving clouds —
As I lay on deep green grass
staring upward — mesmerized
without separateness of identity
to confuse me.