His Favorite People are Pilgrims
His favorite people are pilgrims,
some solitary, others in twos and threes.
His favorite roads are dusty, just outside
Jerusalem or
Oklahoma City.
He knows they have been plundered,
he has seen their limps and empty pockets.
But he would walk with no one else,
hold his tongue with no one else,
unveil the shadows with no one else,
than those
who journey five or ten or a hundred miles
in a day.
Rocks are their pillows,
stray dogs and cats their fellows,
and they shop for food at farmstands along the way.
Sometimes the rain feels like sloppy snowflakes,
sometimes it quenches like a cold draught of beer.
Sometimes the rain nourishes the roses and onions,
sometimes the rain is steam rising from an asphalt highway.
They talk slowly, their numbers are in flux.
Companions at heart, but known for only hours,
some dance like puppies, some shrink like soldiers
who still cannot hear the symphony’s percussion without
holding their ears.
One (or maybe all) find their inner chamber filled
with
specters, unruly guests of the past. The same one (or maybe
everyone) fears what lies behind the
locked door at the farthest reaches of their heart. They
know what abides there,
they fear it is still alive there,
and tremble to think of turning the key.
Are we locked outside? Or imprisoned within?
Can it open from in and out? Does the combination work
on both sides of the door?
His favorite people are pilgrims,
some lonely, others solitary and free.
Their feet stir up the same dust, their journeys
wind between street signs and churches,
up to caverns of quiet, down to valleys where rivers
sing with question marks left open.
Sometimes the conversation is revealing,
sometimes it is more human than healing.
Sometimes the silence nourishes the love and vision,
sometimes the trek is a memory
And shame is finally
a place to unlock hidden closets emptied
long ago.
