heaven

Green treetops whisper under the hot breath of summer.
Zada Hawthorne’s Mother is callin’ us t’ supper.
Ridin’ bareback longside a field of grass ‘n’ manure,
Zada ‘n’ me are as dusty as 'his road, for sure.

We shared everything for a time,
but Zada grew up ahead of me.
Last I heard from any Hawthorne’s,
Viet Nam got tall, handsome Teddy.

We head for the weathered gray house in a pinklit dusk,
takin’ our time, like night’s creatures singin’ all round us.
Daddy says one day Jesus will call me home to bliss,
though I can’t imagine anything sweeter than this.