Where Heaven Grows

On
the top
of a moun-
tain, that’s where
It grows, where Heaven
abounds in golden soft rows of
wheat and wildflowers all brimming
with life; in butterflies and spring larks all
atwitter without strife. So on this top, stretching
up one thousand three hundred and seventeen feet, up
closer to Him than others not on, I lose my mind to the deep
green solace, the infinite tissul tissul hiss tat crack tissul shisshh
that reliably rocks my weary thoughts to sleep; ‘tis a slumber so dormant
and abysmal that it becomes the green itself, becomes one with the trees, with
the bees, with the cracks ‘n the hiss ‘n the swish swishy swish and that oh s’cooing
tiss. And in this same way the wind erases my identity; I effuse into Nature’s arms. I sit,
stare’n at and absorb’n all the air until one conclusion saturates my soul: this must be Heaven.

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Poet's Note: depending on browser presets, the shape for this poem could appear in a variety of ways. I have found that if the originally intended trianglular shape (read the poem to find out why it's shaped this way) does not appear it your browser, copy the poem and place it into MSWORD, then hit center on the new document that you put the poem into. This should do the trick. *This work is, as the site states, copyrighted to me and should therefore not be reproduced or stolen in any way, shape, or form. This process is simply for achieving the desired shape.