harvest time

Forgive Me by Mary Oliver…

Angels are wonderful but they are so, well, aloof.

It’s what I sense in the mud and the roots of the 

trees, or the well, or the barn, or the rock with 

its citron map of lichen that halts my feet and

makes my eyes flare, feeling the presence of some

spirit, some small god, who abides there.

If I were a perfect person, I would be bowing 

continuously.

I’m not, though I pause wherever I fell this 

holiness, which is hwy I’m so often late coming

back from wherever I went.

Forgive me.