I dream you tell me I haven't accepted the Holy Ghost

and I tell you I'm learning; now that the children

are older, I fear death less. Bees hum over rotten

apples, leaves spin through the air and break

themselves on the hard ground, animals burrow

underground, and soon snow will bury it all,

its white surface the absence of the rhythm

that carries nature to it, a silence as deep

as my son's sleep. And it's always been

the cessation I long for and fear at the same

time, that pause between heartbeats, the moment

a wave is sucked back into the sea,

a dreamless sleep, wings folded into a body.

I watch the blue heron fish in our pond,

its body poised in absolute stillness, waiting

for the moment to dive or fly.

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