Unnatural, this clearing;
Grass folded over the mountain
Like a green tablecloth over an
Engraved wooden table.
Unnatural, the ring of pine trees
Surrounding this clearing like
Guards. Only I can't tell
If we are being sheltered or trapped.
Unnatural, the perfect cylinder
That absorbs the eyes when we lay
On our backs in the dirt,
As if God cut out a perfect circle in
The sky; a telescope for the naked eye.
Unnatural, we hold hands
Like we are in church on Sunday
Praying, hoping, believing.
Unnatural, I imagine
That all the constellations
Are us; Children
Holding hands and looking down
A cylinder into the universe.