BILL MILLER

He came to the feed mill where
my father worked but I could
tell the first time I saw him
he could not possibly be
a farmer. Not with that red
convertible, the hat tipped
at a jaunty angle, the tiparillo
clenched in his teeth. I admired
his loose-limbed climb up
the office steps, his effortless
way of making himself fully present.
He's a salesman, Dad said, and
a good one. Unlike our customers,
he rarely commented on the weather.
He talked baseball and cars,
told mildly off-color jokes.

We were country.
He was city.

I was fifteen.
I considered possibilities.

TRAIN TRAVEL

The railroad track that ran
behind the feed mill
where my father worked
could take me anywhere.
Balancing myself on a rail,
I would walk, staring into
the distance and go to
Philadelphia, New York City,
London, Paris. Along the way
I amazed everyone with my
intellect and charm, always
properly understated, of course.
I overheard beautiful women
whispering to each other: "So
young and yet so deep." I did my best
to hide my smiles. Then, stepping
off, I'd grab the corn mash bucket
and go to feed the chickens.

WHAT NOBODY TELLS YOU

What nobody tells you
when you walk out of the hospital
holding your first-born in your arms
and she is so bundled up against
the January wind that all you can see
is her nose and a grin has
exploded on your face, that you will
spend a significant part of the rest
of your days worrying about her,
even when she is thirty-six and
checking into the hospital for what
she assures you is "minor surgery"
and ends her phone call with
"Relax, Dad, I'll be fine."

THEOLOGY/BIOLOGY

Ask, if you must, the questions that persist:
    How did it all begin?
    Is there life after death?
    Does God exist?

This morning, as I watch a bee
dive deep into a blossom on our
Rose of Sharon shrub, my questions
are far simpler, but no less cosmic:
    How does it know to go there?
    What compels it to do so?
    What would it be like to be a bee?

We live surrounded by glorious mystery.