Flax Blues

Remember the lawn of your grandparents? 

    Worn in places with moss mixed between the gentlest of grass 

        soft beneath bare feet

            narrow trodden paths 

                walked upon for 40 plus years of marriage 

the hardiest golden fescue reaching upwards.

Last night I dreamt of such a lawn, 

    no it was a field

        on a gentle curving hillside, 

            reaching up to the heavens.

As old as the beginning.

And there lay a cross of blue flowers—the color of Mary's mantle

     and your last T-shirts

        blue mixing gently with cream

        cradled within fescue green.

A crush of flax flowers—symbol

    of truth

of homes given to newlyweds; 

from which the linen garments of angels are made. 

A cross sized to cradle you and me— 

    outspread upon the ground

        as if left by snow angels

        tucked within each other's arms.

And I knew

    you were there

Not to be seen or heard no matter how hard I tried

Embraced within

    that heavenly blue

    sunlit

    and true.