We find something here
that is only here.
We travel roads that are green
with rain.
Faith is loyal,
running through green
and hits you
like voices tumbling across a lake.


Stakes with moss and old butterflies
keep the woolly fields
from our enemy.
The sounds that can be heard only here
are heard.
Bells ring through the morning fog
and dew trembles again
on the green.


Steel strings hum a zig-zagging
stumble, stumble between brick
and speckled chemical layers of a century.
They are reminded of the strength of youth,
of train noise,
of the origin of tales.
In the middle the green finds the beam
through cracks of life.


We find faces on a plane
of color
in ironic nights of black and white.
The green, the damp, the quiet, the light
are clear
in the ways they were before
in other places.
And senses rest.

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