(“Rest once more, my soul, for the Lord
has vindicated you.” Psalm 116:7)
Pressed inside the corner, kneeling beneath the latch,
his heart ran faster than his frightened thoughts.
He was all alone and that is what he feared;
no one’s eyes for reassurance, no one’s ears to hear his pain.
He did not live on an island, but if felt that way.
He inhaled the foggy air and felt the drizzling mist
slowly wetting his t-shirt and jeans.
He would not need to change them, the air would
dry them on his lengthy stroll. He was walking,
cross-country,
home.
But even there the solitary day cinched his throat,
made his chest feel heavy, his feet weighted with lead.
Do you know how long it takes for
scars to heal while you sit alone waiting for the
ideas to form. He fancied himself an artist,
a sculptor of words. But the pages, always emptied,
demanded he scrape the edges of his soul with a
spatula to find just enough words to share it halfway with you.
Let’s go find him, I’m sure he is home.
Let’s bring him coffee, apologies and shalom.
Let’s sing his words back to him, let’s play
the music his soul absorbs.
Let’s get out his old records, I think he’ll
like the swing bands or some funk.
Let’s let ourselves in before he invites us,
let’s leave only after the last song is played.
He sat in the corner, his favorite recliner,
and slowly allowed the light to coax his verses.
He had always feared unannounced visits,
and was stuck for words. But this time he
was ready,
and he could not put his finger on why;
but this time he was open,
and he laughed in dotted lines across the room.
He laughed because ancient times are not nearly as old
as he assumed.
