Blessed … be his land … for the precious fruits brought forth by the sun, and for the precious things put forth by the moon. And for the chief things of the ancient mountains, and for the precious things of the lasting hills.
Deuteronomy 33:13–15
A boy who runs the creekbeds in his youth
grows up to see a stream with doubtful eyes,
suspects the worst to wash down from the mines,
follows his hope for work that puts it right.
A boy who plays in woods along the ridge
can’t help but turn the chests of beech and oak
into tales where words stand straighter than
the copse of tulip poplars on the rise.
A boy who rests his head down in a field
sees clouds that stretch past his understanding,
aligns himself to mystery and trusts
that falling through blue dreams is not failing.
A boy who hears the brightest songs of birds
in morning when the sunball buffs the sky
believes a melody will bear all misery
and mark his days with questions and surprise.