Simeon, looking forward
to dying in peace,
the face of God
your goal.


Earthly motion all around,
a full market,
a packed street full of
familiar eyes and smiles,
passing by, sounds of shouted "shalom's"
flowing like water past you.


The temple ahead, high on the hill
waits for you;
A man, old with God's promise
on his way to meet
the messiah.


And they are there,
the three drawn together,
held by the father's purpose,
all with a part
in our saving.


So, Simeon, you have waited earnestly,
leaning into the future,
knowing the God
who waited on you,
Not knowing what He looked like;
Eyes forward, prosdechomai,
May you now depart in peace
with the smile of God
reflected in your eyes.

for Anne, after seeing Andrew Wyeth's portrait of his wife...


I looked at her face, painted
by hands that loved her,
made her come alive
like the wedding day
photo,
two smiling faces
next to one another
looking into the future.


The lines of her face,
painted, and frozen on celluloid,
a perfect mirror
one for the other,
evidence that two eyes can see
as clearly
as one.


Placed side by side
there's no mistaking
face for face--
lines and colors and shadows
showing more than
two dimensions of love.


But you love a lover of words,
not a purveyor of shades and
pigments.
How will the world
know that it's you,
with kind eyes and scented hair
(with its recent frosting),
the mind of a chemist
and faithful soul,
heart of a mother
and teacher,
love and lover
of my life...
How would they know
it's you?

You both sit
entranced
by gadgets,
a paternal gift
and flaw,
Making new sounds,
playing old games
on laptop computers,
winning and losing
on Christmas morning.


No more dolls
that cry
"Mama,"
no more worrying about
primary colors
or classical music
or Goodnight Moon--
gadgets and games and Nerf guns
rule the day.


Wishing it was
a younger time
Only brings sorrow;
enjoy the day, the year
my heart tells me,
for these will be gone,
too,
soon.

Collected moments
Things changing so quickly
One, then the other
Certainty flees
What's next?


Cold rain
Hard, stinging
Softens
Starts as a shot
Ends a windblown pillow
Dancing in front of the window


When I walked in
I was dodging drops
Now flakes turn
The window white
Like 2AM UHF
We wait to change the channel
To see what's coming on
Next

Grief is a town
full of dirt streets,
always muddy,
rutted deep
by those
passing
through.

We look for
the bypass,
the way around,
only to realize, too late,
boots already
******* more muck
with each step
that this village is one
that all roads,
eventually,
lead to.

And that mud clings,
washings and rain
only drive the dirt
deeper,
staying on us long
after we pass
through.

Only time can dry
this all-covering filth,
make it crack
and flake off,
leaving clear the trail
of sorrows we've
trod;
and us,
splattered and stained
with memory.

for C.M.

What well feeds
this spring
of emotion,
running with a flood
of tears?

How deep a love
do you have,
my friend,
untapped,
waiting to run forth,
to embrace a
new life?

Do I see a regret
in your tears,
a wish put aside,
a faith forgotten,
a desire subdued?

Even a capped well,
shut off and blocked,
seeps and leaks and flows with
tears of pain
and hope,
your eyes look, watch, hope, pray
unable to close the well
of your love.

Grey templed men
Survivors
Of wars and battles and campaigns
Fought in places
Whose names are forgotten
Except by those
Who nearly died there.

Baseball caps
Embroidered with names
Of ships,
Of campaigns,
Of armies,
Remembered, truly remembered
Only by the men,
Once boys,
Wearing them.

We applaud
While they quietly,
Stoically
Shed tears
For forgotten friends,
Forgotten by all
Except those
Who lost them.