It’s spritzing sullenly.
Grey clouds cover the sky.
It’s dark in Ephrata. Cold…

Of course, it’s Lancaster weather.

Memories of the warm, folding fires,
the smell of soft scrapple, of apple butter, drains.
Now, pure raindrops fall on my eyes,
I put my hand in his.

We sit under the arched arms of an old oak.

The struggling light of day
falls across his beautiful face,
right like angel light.

The blood of his wound ebbs on the buttercups.

We lay here, shunned from home,
In the dark. In the cold.
It wonders me why people hate…

But I can forget the past now, and live for the future.

And I look to where we are headed—
I watch the sun coming to rise in the horizon.