Retreat Poem 4
Written in honor of my wife for covering for me at work
9:02 AM Sunday
My congregation is worshiping.
I am in a room by myself
Miles away.
I have not been home for a week
To parent, putter, pastor,
And all of this is fine.
Knowing this is
Knowing I am not necessary.
I am of infinite worth, but
I am of finite, passing utility.
Holding together these two truths tandem
Is wisdom, and, in its own way,
A happy premonition of death that is
Hard to hear, but
Once heard,
Gladdens the heart.
The room in which I sit
Overlooks a graveyard
Covered with snow.
I did not make the connection
Between the view from this chair, and
The words I write as I sit
Until now.
And, as I write them,
A person clad all in black
Like some exercising Johnny Cash
Runs through the stones
Using the great and mighty mystery
Of the human animal
To become a single, moving void against the white,
To complete a jogging loop,
To labor towards being
Healthy, vital, and whole.
Someday
Maybe soon, or
Maybe so long from now
It will feel like only an ounce less than forever,
The dark runner
Will stop among the stones,
Lie down,
And have a stone dedicated with great solemnity
To him (or to her).
And then I will say, "Welcome," and
"Hello."
(My guess, you see, is I am older.)
And we will wait together,
Him (or her) and me, and maybe
You and I.
We will wait for the remaining
Millennia of this age to pass
In a blink, and
For the new age to,
At last,
Spread its punctured wings to full span,
Gather us up, and finally,
Still these questions of necessity and utility
By breathing into us one more time
Endless
Worth and divinity.
9:02 AM Sunday
My congregation is worshiping.
I am in a room by myself
Miles away.
I have not been home for a week
To parent, putter, pastor,
And all of this is fine.
Knowing this is
Knowing I am not necessary.
I am of infinite worth, but
I am of finite, passing utility.
Holding together these two truths tandem
Is wisdom, and, in its own way,
A happy premonition of death that is
Hard to hear, but
Once heard,
Gladdens the heart.
The room in which I sit
Overlooks a graveyard
Covered with snow.
I did not make the connection
Between the view from this chair, and
The words I write as I sit
Until now.
And, as I write them,
A person clad all in black
Like some exercising Johnny Cash
Runs through the stones
Using the great and mighty mystery
Of the human animal
To become a single, moving void against the white,
To complete a jogging loop,
To labor towards being
Healthy, vital, and whole.
Someday
Maybe soon, or
Maybe so long from now
It will feel like only an ounce less than forever,
The dark runner
Will stop among the stones,
Lie down,
And have a stone dedicated with great solemnity
To him (or to her).
And then I will say, "Welcome," and
"Hello."
(My guess, you see, is I am older.)
And we will wait together,
Him (or her) and me, and maybe
You and I.
We will wait for the remaining
Millennia of this age to pass
In a blink, and
For the new age to,
At last,
Spread its punctured wings to full span,
Gather us up, and finally,
Still these questions of necessity and utility
By breathing into us one more time
Endless
Worth and divinity.