Know.

Degenhardt, Untitled, 1977

There is a place where the town ends
      and the fields begin.
It’s not marked but the feet know it,
also the heart, that is longing for refreshment
      and, equally, for repose.

Someday we’ll live in the sky.
Meanwhile, the house of our lives is the world.
The fields, the ponds, the birds.
The thick black oaks—surely they are the
      children of God.
The feistiness among the tiger lilies,
the hedges of runaway honeysuckle, that no one owns.

Where is it? I ask, and then
my feet know it.

One jump, and I’m home.

Mary Oliver