Will we know it when it happens? And (if so) how will we know? Will we know that we know? Will we be able to recognize it? . Will the moment herald itself with the shout of an archangel? Or will we anticipate its coy arrival with a kind of parental prescience? .Continue reading “The Last Bath”
How often do we reflect on the profundity of the simple proverb Opposites Attract? It’s a brief axiom as familiar as a surname and ordinary as an apple, but to probe its meaning and implication is to plumb a mine shaft of mystery. What do we mean when we say, “opposites attract?” Why are weContinue reading “Thy People Shall Be My People”
A simple wooden glider at the curb for Bulk Trash Day. Its rear cushion sags and hangs tenuously by a loop re-sewed twice. The armrests have long since lost the softness of their pseudo suede and are worn and polished like a haystack rock on the Oregon coast. Years ago, the chipboard seat support bentContinue reading “A Simple Wooden Glider”
Tomato plants in late June
don’t smell like anything
tomato plants in late June.
Singular unto themselves
their redolence subsists…
I have an antique rose; She waits patiently for me. When I draw nigh with pruning shears, She utters not a plea. Her thorny branches twine in knots, They tangle by degrees. Yet when I start to thin them out, She neither fights nor flees. She stands in proud defiance, An indomitable foe; It’s ne’erContinue reading “I Have An Antique Rose”
I do not— when my feet at long last find Jordan’s verdant banks, in those fleetly fading moments between my final breaths, before the curtain falls upon my mortally shuffled coil— I do not want to there remember or know any reason to regret that I neglected or did not otherwise seize even a singleContinue reading “My Lilacs”
Dump Trip Saturday is sacred among Saturdays. It stands alone unto itself, unique and holy. Its rites and rituals are solitary and serene; their execution is communal (and clamorous!). . Dump Trip Saturday is always borne from Saturdays past: A pile of scraps after a completed project, appliances failed beyond repair, a neglected playhouse, aContinue reading “Dump Trip Saturday”
My younger daughter spent a considerable amount of time (I am told) writing this note for me the other day. She was so obviously pleased with herself and her tiny correspondence that she met me at the front door and wriggled like Christmas morning as she told me where in the house to find the note
It can hardly but sober a man to consider how he will be remembered after he at last shuffles off this mortal coil. Will he, in that dim light of dusk on Jordan’s bank, depart in the assurance that he done all, lived all, loved all that he could? Will he, when his works become manifest on that Day and are tested by fire, have anything to show for that which he toiled under the sun? Did he, as Moses prayed, number his days aright?
Suddenly, without warning, without precedent or prelude, On a dreary January morning, in the grey and lingering damp, It happened that Summer startled me— quite unannounced and unexpected. It shocked me, there in the cellar, sifting through cobwebs, extension cords, milk crates, and mesh bags of walnuts— the implements and incomplete aspirations of Saturdays past.Continue reading “Down the Cellar This Morning”