Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Words that Fall Out of Meditation


Not in confusing connections.
In the man who doesn't nag,
who wants my help,
who appreciates a good meal
and any lame attempts at cleaning,
who shares laughter, shows,
and quiet Saturday mornings.

Not in criticism,
but in the sleeping form
under the blankets,
in the gait, a swagger
which he'll never see,
in the way he looks
like me, like him, like me,
not in the way
he emulates my sin
but in effortless authority,
in jokes,
terraforming and repellant,
in holding the cat to his cheek.

Not in guilt
but in giving up
the need to compete,
in allowing me
to exist in conversation,
in weakness exposed,
in a bad dream
seven years ago
that hinted of remorse,
in dogwood and peony
and dianthus and yew.

Not in control
or in fury,
but in the orange ear ring
clipped to one ear,
in the way
he quietly taught the lathe,
in cake, ugly and green,
shaped like a dragon.

Not in being smarter
but in languages,
in shared books,
in knowledge that something
is wrong way out here,
though it irritates
when pain is exposed,
in garlic pickles in 1981,
in bread rising,
in France and Germany
and Switzerland and Spain shared.

Not in criticizing
but in watching a sleeping form
and whispering soft words
to be heard only in sleep,
in Irish soda bread,
in long walks and watching clouds,
in beautiful salad
or soup that warms,
in good words, spoken or written,
in finding tiny wondrous things
or in the way
I give.

Thank you for listening, jb

No comments:

Post a Comment