August 2008
Shall I sit in my closet andTouch the world?
Look out a keyhole;
See the morning?
Shall I plug my ears and
Hear music?
Cover my face;
Smell rain,
Taste food?
Believe in miracles;
Or imagine a cross and
Love the Lord?
To the wild country,
Can I see the river from camp and
Know its strength
Or its final turn?
Do I learn my brother’s fate
From rumors told by strangers?
They come up the trail at dusk
Riding milk-eyed,
Dry-mouthed mares
And leading gray mules
Gone pale,
Laden with the ghosts
Of dead hope.
They say, “Your brother is lost; too late to start;
Too weak to climb; too old to cross.”
Their stories stale quickly
Like bitter coffee –
They sour my mind and
Destroy my rest.
Heaven forbid that I listen to these!
No.
I will go to a high place and
Study the rivers path.
I will find a trail to the crossing place and
Spend time beside it.
I will test its speed
Against my own and,
By listening quietly,
Sound its depth
And gauge its power.
And Lord willing,
I will return to find my brother.
I will stand outside his tent and
Call him by the name God gave him.
And when the time comes,
We will cross the river again,
Together.
We will walk up the high trail
To
Where the Grandfathers fish.
There, at sky’s edge,
We will find our
True friend
Roasting fresh fish over
A low fire.
And the smell…
The smell is beyond
My imaginings.
John 21
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