333
Lucky clover, watch how the deer follow. As if the earth were whispering their names through the soles of their hooves.
The little lambs are asleep in the dip of the field, their mothers are far. The distance between them hums like an organ note you feel deep in your bones but cannot place.
Our silence is not empty. Dust turning slowly in beams of heat.
Warm sunlight pours through colored panes somewhere behind us. Not named but known, shattering into garnet and molten gold across our shoulders. This light feels pure, filtered through centuries of prayer. It stains our hands.
The faces follow. Halos lifted like eclipses. Their mouths hold the shape of mercy, They know the answers we are looking for. They cradle them behind the leaded lattices of their ribs. They will never tell.
I don’t guess we are worthy, we who bruise the clover with our wanting. Startled by every cracking twig, mistaking it for judgement.
Still, I will tell you all the answers I know. That deer come closer to the unarmed heart, that lambs dream in milk white tongues, that light is only holy because it passes through something broken to reach us.
I will lay these small truths between us. Will you do the same?
Lean nearer in this field turned sanctuary, let the colored hush wash over your mouth. Give me the secret you keep cupped beneath your tongue?