Grief

Stepping out for a walk,

I see the fog is back.

You never know when it will come,

when the clouds will settle heavily,

blocking out the sun

from the sky to the ground.

It rolls in softly.

Almost before you notice,

it permeates everything,

and the chill is beneath your skin.

When will it lift?

No one can say.

As it comes, it goes.

It always evaporates

after awhile.

The last particles of mist

sparkle as they dance

and sublimate in the sun.

Until then,

I’ll just have to walk

in it,

keeping the company

of the silhouettes

that appear, memory-like,

in the vapor.

Farmland in Winter

Fallen timbers

criss-cross like bones

protruding from shallow graves.

They were once barns,

sheds,

outlying buildings.

Among other things,
they kept

what the reaper brought.

Now,

for all of us who pass them

as we travel this rural highway,

they hold the future,

haunted

by snow that drifts ghost-like

through the empty fields

where they lie.

Rise and Shine

The percolator

bubbling and puffing,

the clink of dishes,

feet thumping overhead,

the hiss of butter or bacon

on a hot pan…

Morning sounds,

like sprites,

hovered around my head,

until I was drawn from sleep

by their spell.

But it was the laughter,

the voices

spry with conversation,

that finally got me out of bed

and bounding up the stairs

from my grandparents’ basement.

What jokes had I missed?

What stories or discussions?

Had an aunt or uncle stopped by

with cousins in tow?

I didn’t know it then,

but now I can see

the face of God

behind the smiles of relatives,

the shadow of communion

in the buttered toast and jam,

the resurrection and the life

as I woke from sleep

and found the arms of grandma

or grandpa

open

and waiting.

Waking & Sleeping (for Dad)

It was like so many other times

I’d seen you sleeping—

on the couch after dinner;

with a baby on your chest;

on a lawnchair in the back yard.

Of course, you weren’t so thin then.

Your body wasn’t gnawed away by cancer.

Still, it wasn’t so different

with your head slightly cocked

and your hands resting on your chest.

The real difference

will be in the waking.

You won’t yawn and reach for the remote;

you won’t stretch and scratch;

you won’t roll out of your chair

to grab a cold one.

This time,

you will wake

where no eye has seen;

you will wake suddenly from troubled dreams

only to find yourself safe

in the secret dark,

arms enfolding you.

Once More (for Dad)

I learn that a friend had twins yesterday,

a year after her mother died.

As I go my way, I smile.

My mind drifts

to a scene

of grass and flowers growing back

at time-lapse speed

over a grave site.

What is mortal

is swallowed up by life.

My own father’s death

is just a few weeks past.

The ground by his headstone

is still broken and churning,

hard clods lay on top

like fists,

and though the dirt was replaced

the hole remains,

a scar in the grass.

But the spring rains will come.

With the whispered hush of their falling

they will wash and settle

the churning ground.

Even the clods will soften

and open.

Underneath,

roots will mend

their torn fabric;

shoots will find their way up

through the broken places,

and flowers will lift their faces to the sun

once more.

Crying in the Wilderness

“Are you the one who was to come,
or should we expect someone else?”

That day by the river—
in front of God and everyone—
I pointed at him
like I was leading the cavalry
and cried out,
“Look!! The Lamb of God
who takes away the sin of the world!”

Later,
as my disciples were leaving by droves
to follow him,
I braced myself,
and explained to one of the few remaining,
“He must increase, and I must decrease.”

I believed it…I believed it…
I believed it so much
it was my undoing.
And because I believed it,
everyone else started believing it.

But now,
the dead air grips my bones
with both hands
and shakes the cage of my ribs.
Now,
the stench of wasting humanity
makes my head spin
like a busted compass.
Now,
in the twilight of my heart,
it’s either him
or me,

and I need to be sure.

Rise and Shine

The percolator
bubbling and puffing,
the clink of dishes,
feet thumping overhead,
the hiss of butter or bacon
on a hot pan…

Morning sounds,
like sprites,
hovered around my head,
until I was drawn from sleep
by their spell.

But it was the laughter,
the voices
spry with conversation,
that finally got me out of bed
and bounding up the stairs
from my grandparents’ basement.

What jokes had I missed?
What stories or discussions?
Had an aunt or uncle stopped by
with cousins in tow?

I didn’t know it then,
but now I can see
the face of God
behind the smiles of relatives,
the shadow of communion
in the buttered toast and jam,
the resurrection and the life
as I woke from sleep
and found the arms of grandma
or grandpa
open
and waiting.