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.
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.
.
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.
With fishing skiffs dawn-departed
And the launching clamor over,
Stilled water now mirrors lemon-lime grasses
Beneath feathered clouds floating in a pastel sky
And a tranquil beauty unfolds.
Gently comes my God some days
Gently wakens me
Gentle breath upon my soul
Fills me with serenity
It is easier, I think, to argue for the existence of God while standing in a well-tended garden.
This garden entrance is well tended,
Suggesting a pleasing view behind.
Yet I dare not try the latch
For fear of disappointment.
Some doors, you’ll agree, are best left closed,
For heaven’s allure is strongest when veiled.
One morning every two weeks more or less, when the falling tide aligns with the rising sun just right, Elaine and I wheel our homemade dinghy down to the end of our street where it meets the sandy bank of the Tolomato. We launch the boat there and row across the river to Indian Creek where we explore and map its several winding navigable channels and their shallow branches that slice through the marsh’s cordgrass; where we marvel at the heron, and the ibis, and the stork that hunt knee deep in the shallow waters near oyster bars and take flight with wing-beating haste as we draw near; where we seek out promising locations to fish for mangrove snapper, spotted sea trout, and black and red drum.
You would not think it, but each and every boating morning, upon climbing out of sleep and as I wait for daylight to leak into night’s darkness, I listen with languid longing for the sound of rain or of strong wind so that I might whisper to my wife that we must cancel our outing and that we might console ourselves in a second sleep.
Fortunately, the gods care for me to the extent that they rarely provide me with a heavenly-excused absence from our undertaking. They are better aware than I that the audible snap of bone against bone as my legs slide from under the covers and bend over the bed’s edge and that the satanic tingling in my left foot as it touches the floor are indicative of the indisputable truth that the greater part of my life stretches far behind me, and yet so much of our understanding of Indian Creek lacks sufficient detail. They are also better aware – praise them – that the taste of eggs, and bacon, and strong coffee prove more gratifying and flavorsome when consumed as Elaine and I pencil in the latest additions to our master map upon our return later that morning.
In the woods at the back of the house,
The young girls stand amidst the oaks,
Their eyes raised to the leafy canopy above them.
They do not move, nor do they speak.
They hear only the tap, tap, tap sound up and to their left.
They search for the drummer’s location.
By the door at the back of the house,
The grandfather watches the girls in the woods.
He hears a woodpecker at work.
He does not move, nor does he speak.
He chases an ethereal notion
That the girls, and the oaks, and the woodpecker are one.
As day breaks in the summer
When the sun is at its farthest point north,
The boundary between my bedroom world inside
And my garden world outside
Steadily weakens in the glass doors to our backyard deck
To the point where my wife is able to dress
In two realms at the same time:
Here by the bed next to me
And there under our oaks amid the red salvia.
Vilano Images 