Snow

First rain, then sleet, then lightly sweeping snow,

Swift falling wintry mix that chills the air

And frosts the muddy autumn ground below,

Call to our minds a girl, whose locks of hair,

Both black and beautiful against her face,

Frame sweet eyes closed in some eternal prayer.

A blizzard marked her birth; the holy space

Of hospital room, windows etched with frost,

Was where we held our love and felt her grace.

The snow still brings to us the girl we lost,

Somehow connects us to her once again –

Our spirits meet when earth with snow is glossed.

    When winter sun sets shimmering ice aglow

    We smile, and say that Harper says hello.

Caravaggio's St. John the Baptist

Brooding prophet wrapped in robes of red,

Strong reed scepter, autumnal tree your throne;

Not bound by desert wilderness as in the Gospel,

But bound by pervasive, haunting images

In your mind.  Your lean, locust-fed body

Curved in outward anguish, your eyes

Searching for meaning outside the canvas.

Your hair, the color of the tree,

Is soft and fluffy – full of youthful life,

But somehow old, lost in the hue

Of falling leaves behind you.

Your hand twirls your reed,

Ruminating over mysteries and miseries

Of your yet young life. 

What thoughts invade your calm, country idyll –

What haunts and pains?

Are thou he that should come,

Or look we for another?

Is it your doubt about the Christ:

Wearily wondering whether faith and spirit are real,

Or simply shadows created by the mind

To hide us from the traumas of human life?

Or is it the grief endemic in a prophet’s brain:

Pains that come from knowing

That the earth is not as God would have –

That love, justice, knowledge and truth

Fall when faced with the stronger forces

Of capital greed,

Contented ignorance,

Closed-minded arrogance, and

Cruel apathy?

Why I Dread Going to Sleep

My grandmother sits in her recliner

In her den, drinking coffee, looking out

At birds that fight over the bird-feeder

As autumn shadows march from woods to house –

The sun now angling downward in the sky,

And chilly air signals winter’s approach.

Sometimes we talk about my work at school.

I teach in the school district where she taught

For forty years, and so she likes to hear

How things have changed, and how they’ve stayed the same.

“Your grandfather is at the store,” she says.

“He will be sorry that he missed you here.

You’ll have to come back by again sometime

And say hello to him.” 

                                      The mood is sweet.

It almost seems that she is not aware

That she is gone.  For me, it’s like the scene

From Wilder: Emily comes back from death

To live one day, only to learn that she

Has lost the chance to value every day

And even every minute of each day.

But in our case, it is she that comes back,

And I who lose the chance to value her.

When I wake up I know the truth again:

My grandfather died almost three years back,

My grandmother followed him this past spring.

My mother’s mother, on the other side

Passed away exactly four weeks later.

I see them all, I speak with them in dreams.

They are with me, but not with me, because

I know what they do not know: that they are

Shadows, born in my imagination.

I see my grandfather and hear his walk,

His good leg steps, followed by the bad one,

Paralyzed by polio, made rigid

By a metal brace.  The metallic clink

Of the brace was my signal as a child

That he was home.  The sound echoes and rings

Through the now-empty house, and I can see

His labored steps moving through the hallway,

And I can hear his voice, not heard at all

These last three years.  He calls my name and talks

About the latest Mizzou football game.

Then sadly, I am awake.  The shadows

Were simply shadows, and nothing better.

I lost them once, and I lose them again

Each time I wake up.