I Know Where Paradise Is

I don’t know if there is a heaven or if there is a hell; but I know where paradise is.

Out in the country where the cattle graze, where the dogs play, where the trees hang low and the pace is slow.

Out along the old dirt roads

where the fields are plowed

and the wheat is sowed;

and up on the hills,

where the big bucks hide,

and down below where the field mice crawl and the chicken hawks fly.

Paradise is where the fire pit burns

and the beers are consumed,

where the laughs are shared

and the city’s lampooned.

It’s cold nights in the warm house

where the TV lights the dark,

and the recliner welcomes

with a comfortable embrace

and the journey of sleep starts.

It’s morning dew

when the air is clean

and the grass shimmers in the sun.

It’s daily chores and work well done; it’s the flutter of birds over the trees, down in the low spots where the creeks run.

It’s the end of day beneath a sky of gold, when the cattle lie down

and the night turns cold.

It’s the quiet and the stillness,

and the deep solitude, the inwardness and the contemplation;

it’s the awareness and the gratitude

of nature’s congregation.

It is rugged,

it is gentle;

it is mortal,

it is holy;

it is undisguised paradise.

The Unclad Soul