Saint Of The Backwoods Poem by L MILTON HANKINS

I met a saint in the backwoods.
Her voice shimmered
like autumn leaves worn of wondering,
restrained by slender threads of care.
The years had fed her quiet assurance
and nourished her tenuous grasp on life.
She had never seen the shore
or savored its promise,
And still she feared not death.
Those eyes that scarcely coveted my youth,
flaunted as it were before her.

I was stricken by her faith and frailty
dumb, as the sheep lead to the slaughter
cannot know its purpose.

I suspect that he who wields the axe
cares not to explain the severed head.