[I found the manuscript for this poem, dated 1981, while going through some old papers. I recall writing it, but do not remember the circumstances. This is the first time it has been offered for public consumption.]
I met a saint in the backwoods. her voice shimmered like autumn leaves worn of wondering, restrained by slender threads of care. The years had fed her quiet assurance and nourished her tenuous grasp on life; she had never seen the shore or savored its promise and still she feared not death, those eyes that scarcely coveted my youth, flaunted as it were before her. I was stricken by her faith and frailty dumb, as the sheep lead to the slaughter cannot know its purpose. I suspect that he who wields the axe cares not to explain the severed head.
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