On a quiet Shanksville farm, I finishbucking hay then set a frail of peachesin the door yard.There is no relief, no getting over this heat,so I settle down and stare into the skypast the clouds through whichyou could not see your way.I fold my hands and speak to God.Your souls could not be hijacked.They go on forever like a summer’sgarden growing wild in a placewhere autumn cannot reach.
Photo Courtesy: Michael Dougherty (on Flickr), under Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.0)