Carpet Swatches and Paint Chips

Carpet Swatches and Paint Chips

(“You must turn away from evil and do good; you must strive for peace with all your heart.” 1 Peter 3:11)

I heard the thunder in the late afternoon which is
unusual
for us in the Pacific Northwest. It just rains but
rarely sends lightning across the sky.

I guess I wouldn’t argue with someone whose
experience is different than mine. Not worth it of course.

I heard the arguments that went late after the
board
meeting about a net result of nothing. It is just a
few minds thinking they know it best and the best must
be implemented soon and perfect.

Evil approaches to darken the beauty that comes out
of the light.
Evil tries to erase the artistic soul full of words,
or colors, or shapes, or falling waters. We spend
so little time
letting even a single petal from a rose make our
breathing hurried in awe and reverence.

We would rather have our way pushed through like
a bulldozer building a dollhouse. We decide that
carpet samples
and color swatches
are chosen by majority vote. Which is what happened,
because a quorum had showed up. But one of those
who stayed home
kicked over the five-gallon pails of pain on the unvarnished
floor the next. A tantrum over a shade too soon.

We could not call for a new meeting; the walls were half-painted
before he
decided to throw his weight around. Peace was
interrupted like
an improvised explosive device. Invisible shrapnel
struck everyone gathered and nothing was ever quite
the same.

It seemed insane for a scrimmage to balloon for such
a simple tune. But we agreed, after piercing words had
already met their marks, to wait for the moon to cover
the night
and the sun
to dry the mud and then
we would look at the paint on the walls again.

With empty paint cans strewn across the long floor,
we saw the walls and their adobe pigment in a brand new
light.
Even the naysayers, heads hanging down, agreed the hue
was perfect and said nothing else.

We prayed the dissolution would not linger. But
sometimes you cannot head off the storm. Sometimes
evil breaks down the artistic impulse and insists
an exact pigment exists, a perfect reflection of hue and
light.

But some phone calls just never did sit right.

A Rainful of Thunder

A Rainful of Thunder

Sing the longing, the refrain of spiral clouds after
chorus one, two and three. Rehearse the verses you’ve heard
from improvised warblers giving dawn its due revolution.

You’ve heard the mourning dove, seen them nest,
and return next year, the next, and left the nest waiting
outside upon the balcony. Was it their young who returned,
or the chance landing upon the previous pairs address?
It did not matter, their coos accompanied the rhythm and hum
of the slow meter of everyday drums.

Echo the wind. You’ve watched it since beginning to see
what the invisible leaves behind and the visible steps aside
just as you wished for an unobstructed view. Were the
clouds lost ghost ships and did the earth slip from under
your feet as they teetered across the sky? Were leaves spinning
timbrels the trees used to join the dance? Was this the time
when all stands still,

Breath is imperceptible,
time does not pass but waits like a diamond web
to catch certain memories and give them back
once dreams and wonder have followed
our popsicle sticks down the gutter on a hot
and sticky summer
just after the shout of a rainful of thunder.