where we are, by Gerald Locklin

i envy those
who live in two places:
new york, say, and london;
wales and spain;
l.a. and paris;
hawaii and switzerland.
there is always the anticipation
of the change, the chance that what is wrong
is the result of where you are. i have
always loved both the freshness of
arriving and the relief of leaving. with
two homes every move would be a homecoming.
i am not even considering the weather, hot
or cold, dry or wet: i am talking about hope.

                                          -Gerald Locklin

(Untitled) by laura morgan

Trying to figure it out.

Sitting at the kitchen table
trying to figure out what I have to show for all these years of living.

Mind ponders, and I peer across the sitting room.
Peer out the window
through hazy sheer
where
propane gas cylinders stand side by side
all sage green and rusty red on a truckbed

beautiful to me,
shocking white cautionary flammable gas warning and all.

All is quiet, and I sit, 
seized by the irony

of a life-sized still-life not wholey unlike my memories:
forty-six years of foggy recollections

caustic
and beautiful.

A Warning to My Readers, by Wendell Berry

Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
...a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.

Driving Down the Lane, by Gladys Schaefer (my dear, lovely friend)

Driving down the lane

on a cold spring morning,

sipping coffee

from a thick mug,

we are wrapped in winter’s clothing

grasped from the back

of the closet.

The yellow forsythia joins

the purple tulip tree

shouting aloud

“Spring has come!”

We pass a creek bed

overflowing its banks.

The rains have made the water reach for more.

The world has captured our attention

and we are grateful.

this one is my own

Legacy

Like a tidal wave,
emotion surges,
slams against a wall of disbelief,
halts,
momentarily suspended.

Submerged in childhood narrative,
she remembers.
She, the child. Them, the mothers.
Sweet, broken women.
Earth’s heartache,
Heaven’s mercy.

Against so great a torrent,
she has no control.
Barrier breaks,
floods fall.
Powerful. Intense.
Containless.

Immersed in dreams unrealized,
she grieves.
Them, the child. She, the mother.
Redeemed, broken woman.
Earth’s heartache,
Heaven’s mercy.

Waters recede.

The Artist of God (in memory of Fae Malania, by Marly Youmans

(Fae Malania wrote a lovely little book called Quantity of a Hazlenut -- a collection of essays on life and faith. Malania's husband was an Episcopal priest, who helped to update the Book of Common Prayer (in the 1970s, I think). When Malania passed away a few years back, Books and Culture published this poem, written in her memory by Marly Youmans. I was already a Fae Malania fan, and fell in love with the poem right away.)

The litter of fallen leaves is ankle-deep
And all my words are black ants on the page.
What can I say that's worthy of a life?

Your tower of private dreaming is no more.
Your mouth stops open like a chorister's,
The mirrors go veiled, the window's propped ajar.

"Ineffable," my dictionary sings
As starlight gilds the larches of paradise.
You drink from a shining cup and are made whole.

No, your isle of blessings is not like that.
It is beyond all our imaginings.
The words pour through me and are lost in mist.

The world in time's a dark and thirsty place.
Dear friend, from Paradise-the-blest, will you
Fetch me one drop to cool my burning tongue?

from Daily Readings in the ABCs of Faith, by Frederick Buechner

Glory is to God what style is to an artist. A painting by Vermeer, a sonnet by Donne, a Mozart aria -- each is so rich with the style of the one who made it that to the connoisseur it couldn't have been made by anybody else, and the effect is staggering. The style of an artist brings you as close to the sound of his voice and the light in his eye as it is possible to get this side of actually shaking hands with him.