A
Missed Phone Call
(“For I will pour water on the thirsty
land and streams on the dry ground; I will pour my spirit upon your descendants
and my blessing on your offspring.” Isaiah 44:3)
I heard you called while I was out,
that you had left a message for me. I fumbled
with the phone, misdialed the number and tried
again.
But my fingers slipped and,
too
tentative to re-call, I thought of
dropping by.
You know already how unsteady I am
when I do not know the subject at hand.
But I have not forgotten how to dream.
While others talked of visions, told in great
detail and
filled with colors like Van Gogh,
I was myopic. An ant carrying a leaf
was glorious to me.
I did not understand that until now. I did not
know how majesty invades a dial tone or
a grain of sand. Could it be,
scratching my head,
that becoming less is a better vantage point
than flying with the fireworks across the sky?
Anyway,
what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry I missed your call.
I hesitate to write much at all,
(you know my missteps, my wrong turns, my downfalls)
and you would be right to mention them, though
I carry them heavy. I carry them deadweight. I carry them
inside my body and outside my dreams.
But I will meet you. Give me a time and place. We can
sit by the river if you like; the seals swim by this time of year.
Just no place too crowded please; the noise compounds
my
dis-
ease.
But I will meet you.
And exchange an hour of our time, and
let quiet talk replace the pathology of imagining
the worst. We can watch the streams tickle the
pebbled banks.
