This Late in the Afternoon

This Late in the Afternoon

(“You are praised with silence in Zion, O God.” Psalm 65:1a)

Are the shadows similar to silence,
can I hear the shapes they imitate?
They intimate there is more here than
I first thought. Can silence be the same;
can it be a space that speaks of something else,
though it goes without a name?

There are three, maybe four people I know
whose silence is not awkward. We have not
run out of things to say;
we are simply digesting them, ruminating
to find the truth hidden inside
everyday conversations.

I found a snapshot of my father,
his father,
and me,
and my son. He was not yet one
and we stood on the lawn for a picture
of four generations. My son does not remember it,
so I think I will send him a copy, without comment.
Silence never insists on a particular point of view.

The shadows grow longer this deep into August,
I must find the sunny spots earlier than a month ago.
Clouds swim overhead and the sun ducks behind one
for a few moments. My fruit trees blink when it
peeks back out. Silence is stiller this late
in the afternoon.

Into the Afternoon

Into the Afternoon

(“Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people.” Nehemiah 8:5a)

If you listen between the words,
if you prophesy with sunset orations,
if you sing like you used to when we were young,
if you decorate the air with perfume sprung from honey and clover,

I will sit through the afternoon to watch
peace descend upon the watching and waiting.
I will share the light with you, the sun of 1000
days in June.
The smoke from the campgrounds below us
is almost floral, opening our senses to songs we
once knew by heart.
I gave away one of my guitars I used
to sing at campfires and living rooms. I hope it
is still played with joy.

The gentle sunlight has radicalized me,
the voices of justice are part of my vocabulary.
I’d be more brazen, less cautious,
emblazoned with fire in my heart;
and, less flawless than ever, I might sing
out of tune and

That is why

I invite you to sing with me into the afternoon.

Mosaics Missing Stones

Mosaics Missing Stones

(“He gives justice to people who are oppressed, He gives bread to people who are starving! The Lord: who frees prisoners.” Psalm 146:7)

I left half expecting to hear from
you (all); I traveled the distance from autumn
to winter.
I settled, and left my forwarding address.
I found the emptiness too much to bear.
I walked the half a block to the mailbox
every day after noon,
and only found four color fliers and requests
for my contribution to health insurance and
candidates in stride.
I was not oppressed, but depression grabbed me like
a cavern of anti-gravity. I hoped to find a few who
would float with me
once they viewed my broken tether hanging in the sky.
I would stare at the addresses, the digits, and the trinkets
that were friends (siblings) and would not leave my room
for
hours at a time. Out of sight/out of mind/but no one left
this heart of mine. I remember your losses and your tears.
I remember buying lunch and sitting silent by hospital beds.
Now that I was aimless,
I only hoped for the arrows of kindness to land close enough
for me to see the name and address of adoption. The ink
on the certificate melted in the rain.

I returned half expecting to hear from
you (some); I traveled the distance from summer to
the Columbia mid-pandemic, mid-continent,
while the heat scratched my eyelids dry.
Plenty to eat, plenty of time, plenty of stereo sounds
to remind me of loves just inside the next room,
of loves that left too soon, and loves that, though
gathered often before
could not find their way to my door.
Returning, though, I discovered, (like mosaics missing
stones), I was not alone. I was not the only one.
No longer weightless, I sank into the mud
and wished I had, with all my grass and green,
with all my song, not have stayed unseen.
Today I did not arise until well

Into the afternoon.