It is Kindness that Waters

It is Kindness That Waters

(“I pray that the Lord Jesus Christ will be kind to you!” Philemon 1:25)

The spoons lie in the silverware drawer,
the same niche they have occupied since the
first day in the kitchen. Some days there are 4,
some there are 12. Some days the dishwasher is full.

I wake on the same side of the bed,
the same bed I have occupied since the
first day I moved in. Some days my pain is 5,
others it is 9. Some days I do

 not get up at all.

I need more spoons, but the summer has beat me down
with unrelenting scorch. And even though I know the
hills above the Columbia
summon me
I cannot pull my pain, my overdrafted checking account,
out of my head to spend an hour there.

I want to show this ache to you, to paint it for you,
to cry it to you and for you to pick up the tears
with your tongue, tasting every one,
and look at me (surprised love), and wash
away every fiery arrow and the embers left behind.

And, with a simple sigh, I want to clear the air for you,
the questions I share with you, the doubts unfair that
poke us both like Poseiden’s trident. When we feel
half dead already, our silverware drawer nearly bare,
an extra demand or reprimand sends us deathly reeling
and empty.

So, here is my balance sheet, I am deeply in arrears.
I have less that I started with.
And now, this drought of sadness and pain
has left me to look for the autumn rains again;
while I wish for you the sun in full regalia,
the love that showers with each ray plus time.
Afternoon, morning, night or starshine,
it is kindness that waters our pain and
brightens our sad eyes. 

Sanity, it seems,
is losing everything; a cistern in the sun.
It is losing everything; crepe paper in the rain.
And we, you and I, though no one else can see,
are more whole because grace has crammed the
empty aches that filled us vacantly.