Among the marsh marigold and cowslip,
I found myself
speaking of the spirits’ fruits,
blackberries tangled on the vine.
Spire pointing skyward
this is where I left you
to your tailored prayers.
At Kingswood Hill I climbed
a topography of grace among
the miners, unabashed,
spoke that all our gifts are wasted
if not tempered
by love. Only then in the widest field,
with such hearers, I became
free. I have spoken all my life
the stalwart denial
of self, now, only to find myself mislead.
There is something more than
salvation, a fullness
you cannot earn. I felt the sky
above me shake with mercy, call me
a zealot, for I am fanatical
to escape myself
and extend my hand to show you;
under this bright sky leaves brush
against cathedral windows;
there is no barrier between us and heaven.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.