When I was young I wished for longer springs and hillsides painted with wildflowers, grass belly-high and every canyon running water—livestock grazing pastoral notions, heavenly eternal. I may have to stand in line on the trail to mountain pastures when I shed this human coil, but hope to hell that the majority of souls will be waiting at the Pearly Gates instead.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged choices and proclivities, grass, heaven, pearly gates, souls
Haven’t wondered about Heaven
since Sunday school’s cold
pearly gates and alabaster walls
seemed drab by comparison,
and the blinding shine of silver
and gold eternities much too bright
even for the pure. Out of dust
and dirt we rise, generations
personified in living colors.
We need not preach poetry
or pray for more than what’s
before us full with awe—
small enough to see through
purple stems of Wild Hyacinth
on green, on gray—I believe.
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