She discovered a small alcove of trees
hidden in the curve of the north field
tucked into thick clumps of  cedar, tall black walnut
and silver poplar with a scattering of redbud.  

It was an accidental find while searching
for the old moonshine still the locals told them
was on their land. The space opened up to her,
a secret garden, a chapel with a canopy of  cypress vine.  

Red  blooms hung low, a sanctuary lamp
dripping sweet grace, a refuge from darkness and grief.
She spent time deep inside that summer,
cushioned on cedar branches, discerning as she listened to birdsong.