Leaving

When I look out across the pasture at Larch Hill,          this Saturday in mid-October, I think of how often                    we would walk here together, and talk to the herd

of cows, that would interrupt their grazing, and come          to meet us by the electrified wire fence, huddled                    in their collective affection, tails swatting away flies;

and how we didn't quite want to leave that last time,          in early September, but remained to stay, before going,                    to warm ourselves in the sun; and how I indicated

to you that farther up the cinder path, to the right,          is where I would release prayers by the white pasture gate,                    to ask for guidance from the Lord. I have looked out

across the farmyard garden beyond, and over          the weeks have observed that single maple tree,                    that overlooks the ridges of the Holyoke Range, turn

from green to crimson, then lose all its leaves.          Learn not to look for answers is what I have heard,                    and when I have been able to listen, There is nothing

that offers more grace than loving deeply. Upon our going,          we passed a woman who was sitting on the wooden                    bench on the boardwalk, and when we walked by her,

I remarked to you, having been startled          by the look on her face, that apparently, she must be                    struck with grief; but I believe the woman was not

an ordinary woman, but an angel, that appeared          before us, and for what is the rest of our lives, watched,                    with such sadness in those eyes, our leaving paradise.