Poetry

When there's a golden glow in my garden,
Like September's version of snow, I seek
God's solace there.  This Forest of Arden
Veils, cloisterwise, a humble heart and meek.
But there are trickster-gods who govern us
Who want to make of our environment
Sheol, the rapture of an incubus,
The Styx, a dirge, a malevolent Lent,
The earth, smote, smoke and ash.  It only stops
When Mary's voice descends, in plain English,
Like wings of Cherubs thrashing the treetops:
Shh...Everything's fine.  So.  This is her wish:
That we find in hers a sufficient grace,
Yet haste to green the globe's forestial face.