Hay Ride

How sorry I am
I did not recognize you
when you came to me,
the light flooding the fields
corn standing tall, a maze of stalks.
How neglectful of me
to miss the imprint of your hand
on the thick nest of trees
the near-dry creek
the winding tendrils, making their ways
up branches to leaves,
your peace wending its way
into our hay wagon
onto the suns of faces
of friends and strangers
in whose flawed, awed beauty
I likewise missed your presence.