In the sharing of this place
We gather by reflective pond.
And share the past, the hurt and pain.
While cobb webs break by hand with broom,
Not knowing what tomorrow brings.
We curl beside the waters edge
And wrestle with a gentle breath,
The unknown places yet to come.
Smoke fills the air from grill and burn pile
And all the while
Grief shared is grief diminished
On the lips, of the women at the farm.
No ride of whimsy on the road
With men in search of folly in the wood.
A vigil held by weathered chair
As if the words can heal a soul.
The weathered chair bears burdens well
Of words flung through crisp fall air.
Words of women woven on the porch,
A tapestry of trials.
Worn grease coat feels but feather like
To the heaviness of the words,
That fall as jet-propelled autumn acorns on tin roof,
Like heart bombs dropping from azure blue
And won’t His Words heal our souls?
Proclaim the women at the farm.
This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends.