Covered Bridge, Maine

Sometimes in a dream, I cross the bridge.

I meet others inside the bridge,

having come up from the Bowery for a new life.

For sure the world thinks we are ghosts

or if not ghosts, misfits.

But in crossing from one side

of the bridge to the other,

we see him moving among the deer

and the broken rows of birch.

He often takes a shortcut

walking the waters before ice out

his hands reaching deep into his pockets

to give us bread or fruit,

and we, eager for the Good News,

listen as he speaks,

the woods suddenly still.

The deer edging close

To lick his wounds.

Share:Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterPin on PinterestEmail this to someonePrint this page