Green Grass and Dew-Steeped Flowers
by Michael Escoubas
after a line from a poem by Emily Brontë

It was after his father had spoken sharply,
his words arrows impaling the boy’s flesh,

that he retreated to his secret place: a little outcropping
a few yards into the forest–a sanctuary of sorts.

There, where the oaks and maples grew tall
swaying in the light breeze. There, where

his own patch of grass waited to embrace him,
accept him with no hint of judgment. There, where

the dew-steeped flowers seemed to sense his loneliness–
their lavenders and yellows became priestly vestments,

pastoral nuns, kneeling in prayer–there, in the soft,
green grass, the dew fell sweetly on his face.



 

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