Posts for June 4, 2024 (page 14)

1.

Creation waits for the sons

Trying not to watch the pot
Simmer
Bubbles
The everlasting waiting of food to the table, sustenance to soul.
Avert your eyes and have faith
It will arrive

The wind whistling through the trees,
And the rain peppering down,
The feel of fall in the air,
As colorful leaves cascaded to the ground. 

The multiple colors of pretty leaves.
Dancing through the cool autumn air,
This spectactular display before our eyes,
Majestically floating without a care.

As a symphony making beautiful music,
With the leaves striking alluring notes,
The rain falling through the trees,
While the pleasant chords remained afloat.

From a distance I watch the waiter bring a mound of chicken salad on a bed of lettuce, your usual order, to the table. We used to eat together here, just like this, al fresco. The chicken salad has sliced grapes in it, I think, maybe some walnuts. Your friend, your new girlfriend I’m pretty sure, is having quiche, probably Lorraine, one of my favorites back then. I watch as the waiter pours the coffee, the steam rising from the mugs. The little pitcher of cream. The silver bowl of sugar. There’s a basket of croissants, a saucer with pats of butter, and a single flower, a yellow dahlia, in a tiny vase. You don’t see me because I’m standing in the shadows of the alley across the street, and because you keep your eyes on her. Even if you happened to glance in my direction, you might not recognize me, understandably. I almost think I could walk right up to your table and ask for some change, a few bucks, and you might not look up at me. Even if you did, you still might not know me. But I won’t test this. I refuse to say a word to you, a single word that would ruin your beautiful brunch on this perfect Sunday morning. This is not your fault. I am not your fault. And so I wait in the alley, watch you chew and swallow and sip and smile at her, watch her smile back, watch the two of you rise and walk off down the street, holding hands, until you’re far enough away and I make my move. I run across the street to your table and scoop up the chicken salad left on your plate into a plastic grocery bag, along with the crust of the quiche, and set off in the opposite direction with the busboy’s eyes on my back, crushing the dahlia in my fist.

birding in April
down a river road
we notice a hunter
a rifle
strapped to his shoulder

                                    —to see

To watch you at ten
teetering on the edge of becoming
is to watch the trapezist
working without a net.

(This is so egg-like,
cracking at any minute
due to my carelessness,
or tended with care,
emerging ready to take wing.)

Nothing but clichés
and time-worn expressions
of support come to mind
when new phrasings are called for,
ultimately, you must learn the acrobatics
on your own:

I can only promise
my hands will be there
to grab hold
when you complete
this breathtaking maneuver.

A slow dive into several brains long dead
in this Roman archive library
amid dust of folios and a sneezing researcher,
tracking one man’s thoughts, inspirations,
his name was Friar Ignatius and his Sisyphean labors
lifting Peter Lombard—
once a faith-guide for medieval folk—
much like my second-grade Sister Mary Herman
stepping us through the Baltimore Catechism
with phrases still recalled,
                    “to know, love, serve in this life,
                     and be happy in the next.”
Now like Petrus,
Brady lives in 26 archival boxes
and countless carbons
and the good sister long dead as well—
I come up for air and espresso,
and ponder how to tell the story of a life.