Meditation*

He arrives at shore’s edge, just before sunrise.
He’s brought just one rod with him, all he needs.
He baits the twin hooks with shrimp,
Sets feet in the moist sand,
Places fingers by the first line guide,
Releases the reel bail,
Tightens his hand on the rod’s grip,
And steadies his breathing.

He faces the horizon, waiting for the sun to appear,
Then casts just beyond the submerged dune.
Each incoming wave bends the long rod’s tip,
Each pull back to the sea lets it straighten.
Rod bends, rod straightens, again and again.
The pulse of the sea and the pulse of the planet
Becomes the pulse of the man,
All now beating as one.

*Reworked from an earlier version

A Small Sofa

.

I like the look of this room off the lobby,
And especially this small sofa,
More comfortable than I imagined.
It takes me back to Elaine’s living room
And a sofa nearly its twin in size and color
Back when she lived with her parents.
.
When we were dating and home from college,
I’d sit on that sofa, waiting for her
Until she’d descend the stairs from her room.
There, I’d always study her portrait,
Painted when she was fifteen,
That hung on the opposite wall.
And on each of those evenings, while Elaine tarried,
I sensed an increasing pull 
Toward the fine woman she was becoming.
.
And now, sixty years since we first dated,
I sit on this sofa, waiting for her
Until she descends the stairs from our room.
Here, I consider the years we have weathered.
And on this evening, while Elaine tarries,
I’m amazed to still sense an increasing pull
Toward the fine woman she has become.

To Doze

Her head lifts from the pillow to his left,
Crosses his shoulder, 
Slips past the collarbone,
And settles on the softness of his chest.
He feels her breathing, 
Rapid and shallow at first,
Then slowing and deepening
As she drifts along slumber’s shore.
Does she feel his own breath
Drifting slowly as well?
And does she, too, search for him there?

Nurturing Faith*

This garden entrance is well tended
Suggesting a pleasing view behind.
She knows the doors bare no latch,
The owner had said so weeks ago
And welcomed her to enter whenever she wished.

Yet, she still dare not pull them open
For fear of disappointment.
Some doors, she believes, are best left closed,
As heaven’s allure is strongest when veiled.

*Reworked from earlier version.

Passing Thoughts

.

This morning, the elderly man suspects that The Reaper follows,
Though he knows not what happens should he appear.

     Will a driver, drunk and hurried,
     Late for some rendezvous further on,
     Unwittingly leave him broken on the road?

     Or will his heart take on sudden weight,
     Bending him forward 
     Till he drops to his knees?

     Or will a cancer self-cultivate,
     Inciting a futile resistance
     For three or four, or even more years?

Now, though he cannot say how far behind Death trails,
Logic suggests he is closer than last year,
For at his age, Death’s stride is longer than his own.

That said, up ahead, those bougainvillea vines,
Just where Aviles Street turns out of sight,
Beckon him toward a moment’s simple pleasure.

Out of Options

A second sleepless night, sorry and sore.
Her eyes water still, her nose is raw,
And her chest aches from constant coughing.
She lies on her back in the pre-dawn darkness
Mustering the will for what must be done.

At last, she throws off the covers and stands.
Dressing is easy: her one‑piece black bathing suit,
Covered by her flowered terry cloth robe.
Slipping her bare feet into flip‑flops,
Out the front door she steps.

She walks east on Fifth Street with a steady gait,
And crosses the quiet coastal road with ease.
The pavement gives way to packed sand,
Palms framing the well‑trod path.
She pauses where the trail dips toward the beach
And takes in the calm water beneath a pastel sky.

Now she makes her way down to the shore
And slips off her robe as she goes,
Letting it drop to the sand where it will.
Then into the cool, calm water she wades,
Not pausing until she is waist deep.

Steeling herself, she pulls her knees up to submerge.
Then, surfacing, she floats, her eyes to the sky,
Letting salt water linger at her nose and mouth.
And now on her feet, she returns to the robe, 
Where she sits facing the new day, 
Breathing through her nose.

Atonement

For the seventh autumn in a row,
The landscaper receives a written request:
Trim the foliage outside 2 Pardes Street.
As before, enclosed is a generous check—
An amount far greater than the task should merit.

Uneasy again, he tries to address the excess,
Reaching out to The Beresit Foundation –
The name embossed in gold at the top.
But no address appears, no number to call,
And nothing, as before, turns up in any search.

He returns to Pardes in his aging truck
And tries the garden door. Locked as before.
He knocks, then peers through the wire lattice mesh
And waits. No answer, no footsteps, no voice.
Yet the garden within is tended to perfection.

He finishes the trimming as in years before.
The result is fine, though the wall still wears its grime,
So, unbidden, having a cleaner and water for his next job,
He washes the wall himself, free of charge.

Finished, he gathers his tools and prepares to depart,
But before he leaves, he pauses to reflect on his work,
And there he sees the garden door ajar.

Lost and Found


Having stumbled upon the path, by then long lost,
The elderly couple had half expected
It would lead them back into town.
“Maybe to the lot where we parked,” she joked.

Who would have thought the path would end so sharply 
While still deep in the woods! 
And why end at a stream so wide
As if the forest had drawn some line?

Two hours of wandering, 
Hunger and thirst rising,
These woods no longer looked kind.
And above them the sun threatened 
To set not so long from now. 

Hope draining, they stand before the stream, 
Staring in silence but still holding hands.
“Maybe the path continues on the other side,” 
The husband murmurs, half to himself. 
“Or maybe it’s deeper than it looks.”

Turning from the stream, 
She pulls on his arm to bring him lower. 
She smiles as he faces her 
Looking directly into her eyes. 
She speaks softly to her man, 
“Give me your best kiss, my love,
Then hold my hand, tightly please,
As we step into the water lightly.”

A Silent Unfolding

.


He arrives at the entrance to the beach during day’s first twilight,
And, as occurs on occasion, the old man stops dead in his tracks
And plants the base of his surf fishing rod in the sand
While he beholds the majesty of the unfolding scene before him.
The sun is still a few degrees below the horizon, 
Yet the sky and the calm sea glow with early gold,
And night’s reign in the west begins to fade.
.
He lifts his rod and kicks loose the sand from its grip,
Then takes the well-trod curving path to shore’s edge, 
Guided by the rope line that traces each turn,
Shielding the tall grass that bends in the sea breeze as if in prayer.
.
Having cast his line, he sets his rod in its sand spike
And watches intently the golden horizon for the sun’s silent arrival.
As before, he is filled with a wondrous sense of heightened clarity,
Allowing him to see himself both as a witness to a divine unfolding,
And as a thread woven flawlessly within it.

Windowed Flora

.

It is October—autumn in Quebec City.
Cold by day now, colder still by night.
I stand alone in a square in the old town,
Not far from the restaurant with our reserved table.
I wait here for my wife and the couple
Who joined us on this tourist-minded trip.
The three moved on when my knee began to ache,
Too stiff to match their steadier gait.

As I wait, my eyes settle on a stately window.
Vines frame it, hugging the white-painted brick.
Their leaves remind me of Virginia Creeper.
(Could it grow this far north?)
A flower box rests on the sill,
A mix of annuals still in bloom, but just barely.
I limp a few steps closer, pain flaring in my knee.

I am this Virginia Creeper —
My bare vines cling as best they can,
But some have let go and droop over the glass.
My few remaining leaves dry in the afternoon sun,
And soon will all glide down to the pavement below.
Yet I’m proud of my tenacious remnants,
Now regal orange and gold.

And I am the geranium, the petunia, the primrose, and arrowhead,
Each of my blossoms now missing a few petals,
Yet those that remain still holding their color,
And their stems still reaching for the sun.