July 11, 2006

Sitting at the white table~~

Walled in, I sit out

in the circle of supple light

bracketed by the yellow of wind

flowers visited by carpenter bees

stirring in my ear. Air

slightly scented by potted pink

of abelia, cardinals the color of salvia rattle

the boughs of the waxy leafed gardenias,

hedging the woods, already spent;

the space forms the velvet geography of prayer…

hide me under the shelter of your wings…

the psalmist’s plea in sun drenched desert,

landscape of the soul,

the secret bower of prayer,

a strange mystical warmth permeates

through the green as mosquitoes scuttle

the plans to pray out amongst the Zen of it.

Texture of a secure warmth, an accompanied

Silence; the rhythm of the birds’ flight

marks out a strange enchanting beauty,

a symmetry with the meter of the suffrages;

the rufous’ constant plea, Drink your tea,

as I sip the bitter of black coffee.

I am the chaplain of morning sorrows

taking up the offering of blind poets and the brown

thrasher, the head of an Ichabod,

plucking away at the suet dough,

head molted, distorted, as bald as my love

will be tomorrow, day six of treatment 2 of cycle 1.

Behind closed eyes, I lay my hands on that beloved

head and raise my plea, Be well for me, be well

for me.