Gentle Shepherd

Gentle Shepherd

I enter your pasture…
Where is your flock?
Are there those who follow by night?

No seats set
between the blades of grass—
the rocky crags,
the lofty mountains.

No pulpit
awaits a message

because you, lamb,
You are message itself.

I hear you
in the quiet hush—
the place where one is

and the Gospel
is the harmonization
of a crescent moon,
an owl’s winnow,
Orion’s belt loose in a Universe


filled, ignited with reckless abandon.

Gentle Shepherd

I do not see you remove
the artist’s easel from your
tangled hair, damp with dew.

You carry a hollow sack AND a
prism of colors begins to span
across all space.

Time is only seconds on a 
clock, but the ONLY time you keep
is the ticking of my heart
within this pasture.

—In this moment—
writing a sermon
from your lips that do not speak,
yet meet and dip the curl of
my pen around these words.

Gentle Shepherd

You are the ballad of
THIS song.



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