What Lasts and What Does Not

I save my love for what is close,
for the dog’s eyes, the depths of brown
when I take a wet cloth to them
to wash his face. I save my love
for the smell of coffee at The Mill,
the roasted near-burn of it, especially
the remnant that stays later
in the fibers of my coat. I save my love
for what stays. The white puff
my breath makes when I stand
at night on my doorstep.
That mist doesn’t last, evaporates
like your car turning the corner,
you at the wheel, waving.
Your hand a quick tremble in a
brief illumination. Palm and fingers.
Your face toward me. You had
turned on the over-head light so I would
see you for an instant, see you waving,
see you gone.
~Marjorie Saiser “I Save My Love,” from Learning to Swim

Mist is ephemeral~
evaporates as the light comes out,
unable to bear the heat.

Not so you.

I am grateful
you have been beside me
all these months of stay-at-home,
never wavering
nor wishing to be somewhere else.

So we now have confirmation:
love that lasts
stays close
when all else dissipates.

Grazing and Feasting

Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.
~Ted Kooser “A Birthday Poem”

This is not a usual summer,
lacking boisterous gatherings of family and friends,
missing our endless July outdoor meals~
instead staying in place,
quietly feasting upon each gifted moment
while close-crop grazing
’til I’m full up and spilling over,
ready to someday again share all I have
until empty.


A Glut of Melancholy

I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,
as he called it with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,
and unusual willingness to disintegrate, oatmeal should
not be eaten alone…
~Galway Kinnell from “Oatmeal”

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
~John Keats from “Ode on Melancholy”

Oatmeal porridge and melancholy,
poets and peonies,
stay-at-home orders and quarantine,
a rising COVID-19 death toll;
a week of walking through the suffering
of our Redeemer.

To be glutted with melancholy:
I am not alone in feeling it is
already too much to be borne on
a holy Monday morning~~
nothing more need be said.

We do what we can to understand
why He does what He must.