The Tender Grasses of the Field
When I was a saint I did not have visions but I could see and did note the color of the world—mainly gray, variations on dirt. It's ok, you can live here. The clean sky to attend the child whose hand is empty and mind is muddled.
Consider that earth is made of earth, a mineral and organic amalgam—beyond a tiny range, color is rare. Oh, they will tell you a particular plant, for instance, is red, that certain stars are red, but look for yourself. The color of fox, the color beneath the skin as platelets race, whirling alone in danger, for home.
What won't we do for the sake of the nerves, white threads of agony under the skin, on it, of it...in the wake of remorse we need to pronounce bigger than names. Maybe a verb. Every saint knew how to keep custody of the lips.
The view is lovely, nice sun going, a mountain it goes behind, the mountain made of rock and all. Et in Arcadia Ego, you know. A sheep here or there. A cow. Water. The sound of water if not water. The sound of sheep if not the smell. You call it home.