White Pine

The telling drifts
like cities out of sequence,

a shoebox holding ticket stubs
stamped with date and time--
 

winter will be colder this year. 

 

You watch the drift of a bird

on windless days, knowing it waits

a shift of wind, a breeze like music
that anticipates then fades—

Befriending of flesh before it dies,

is there a name for that?  A constant? 
Trying not to change the words (although I could),
if they happened at all,

holding to what holds us:

a drift of music,

a box of ticket stubs,

confusing the finding with a loss.

 

                                                                                           11/25/2012

Marking Stone

The church grounds speak of care sustained

Through blue November raining gold

On grass below and roof above,

Settling silence indiscriminately

On cemetery stones weathered smooth,
 

Drawn in shallow carvings that one more winter,

Even the warm South, would wear away

The trace of centuries since the day
That raised the marking place.

Why do we speak the words again,

Kneel on cushions worn by kneeling

In remembrance like pencil lines rubbed thin

But still discerned, painted wood in how many layers

Of white on wood? 

Glass of churches should be clear

As these on such a day in blue November.

If only the roof were open

I could wait for the golden blanket to settle— 

I could be a marking stone,

Kneeling on cushions worn by kneeling,

Saying the words again,

Remembrance rising in prayers like incense 

Through falling leaves,

That we shall always remember, like smoke

Walking these grounds:
Trees ablaze over gray stones,

The organ and the song,

Clear glass and the cloudless sky. 

                                                                                                11/11/2012



Christ Church, 1843
Florence, South Carolina

Night Travel

I am faint accompaniment,

Weak signal on a Midwest highway

Where headlights push ahead,

The last farm well behind,

Darkness in the rear view
Waiting for the next city's glow.

We speak on traveling topics:

Satellite radio and CNN,

The luck of winning generals,

How they always have luck:

An opportune storm,

The nation scrambling for cover,

Holding to what is known;

Employment on the rise,

This bit of good news an aftertaste
Lingering on for Tuesday's vote.

Then further back to our Founding,

When the Fathers separated State and Soul,

Civility and divinity distinguished:

Let the governed be governed,

And the damned be damned,

How Christ rendered to Caesar what was his.

We have shifted to Troy and the stories of Homer,
Your voice flickering as the candle burns low--

I try for your meaning, with every third word,

Say good night as the signal dies—

You’re an hour out of Chicago now,

Feeling awake and will make it okay.
You'll listen to music or more of the news--

And I to sleep, remembering Monticello,

The great public man with his private room—

Wishing history could let him be held in the dark,

That she could have heard his voice when he was away—

Passing the time with traveling topics,

That he was safe, and glad she had stayed.

 

                                                                                                11/10/2012