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Wednesday, November 24, 2010

AT THE BIRD FEEDER

There was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.
And I saw the angels which stood before God and to them were given seven trumpets.
-- Revelation 8:1-2

If you stand perfectly still
long enough and close
your eyes you will hear
miniature explosions,
the whirr of wings.

Imagine, if you like,
that you are standing
in the court of heaven,
part of a number
which no man can number
and all creation is on tiptoe,
breathless, waiting
for the fanfare.

Don’t be surprised to find,
to the amazement of both
the chickadees and yourself,
that you have fallen on your knees.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

FRUGALITY

The woman whose seat next
to mine on the Philly to Chicago
flight is -- I don’t know -- say
70, maybe 75.
She’s reading a biography
of Truman. We chat about
that and the weather and
the coming holidays. "So what
do you want for Christmas?"
I say for no reason whatsoever.

Her face clouds (yes,
faces really can do that)
then brightens: "A Lexus."

I mumble something about
cars, the good ones and not so
good ones, tell her I drive
a Chevy and she laughs.

"I’m not laughing at you.
I’ve had the same
car for 20 years.
A Lexus! For heaven’s sake,
what would I do with a Lexus?"

Which makes me wish I could
send one to her house
tied up in a red ribbon.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

SATISFACTION

You do it each November --
prop the extension ladder
up against the gutters,
climb up, shaky,
look down as little as possible,
stretch out your arm,
pull the leaves,
twigs, and other detritus
towards you and
fling them earthward.

When you’re done
you go inside and wait
for the cold rains.

You remember there
are few things more
gratifying than listening to
the gurgle of water

tumbling

through

the

downspout

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

WHAT WAS AND WHAT IS

Dog Walkers -- October

Until last spring
we could walk our yellow lab
down a rutted stony lane
flanked on both sides
by dock, thistle and dandelion

till we came to charred wood
that once was a home
and next to it what must have been,
years back, a small barn.
Just beyond it stood

the only building that had
survived the fire. Across the top
of the door some wit had
painted in bold precise letters:
Ye Old Outhouse.

All of it has disappeared.
Big earth-moving machines
scraped and smoothed it
all away. New houses have
sprung up like mutant mushrooms.

Now we walk Dinah somewhere else.

 
Contractor -- Last January

When we draw up the master
plan, let’s have the street
run between these two foundations.
I think we can use some of those
stones somewhere or maybe
we can sell them to whats-his-name,
that old guy over in Waynesboro
who still does mason work.
Do you think any of the wood
from that old outhouse is salvageable?


Home Owner -- November

Well, we did pay a little
more than we planned to
but we really like it.
The contractor promised
we could move in by
the first of last month
and he only missed it by
a week and a half.

Yes, it’s a great view to the west.
That’s the Tuscarora ridge
over there and I’m told
that the grove of cedars
down there used to be
a home for deer.
The neighbors are nice,
I guess, we don’t really
know them very well.
Lots of kids though.

Come on in. It’s turned colder.
I think Kelly has coffee on.

Oh, it used to be a farm.
Last week a man and woman
came by, walking their dog,
said there back of our garage
is where the outhouse was.
Hard to imagine, isn’t it?