NOT TO DECIDE IS TO DECIDE

"To make," he said and paused, his gaze
turned from the window to my face,

"a long story short, I'm broke."
His shoulders slumped. He spoke

softly, shifted in his chair.
"If you have something you could share . . .?"
He left the question hanging in the air.

All of it could be a lie I knew
well enough, but suppose it all was true?

He got up and walked away.
I saw the day was cool and gray.

A PUNISHMENT TO FIT THE CRIME

I don't remember which of us
started it. But suddenly we were
at it, bashing the slender trunk
of the sapling with softball bats,
reaching up and snapping off its
tender limbs. Finished at last,
exhausted, we fell to the ground
with gleeful grunts. A shadow
loomed over our ten-year-old bodies.
    Come inside. Now

Mrs. Loechner marched us like
prisoners of war into the one-
room school and made the three
of us stand attention at her desk.

    I've written on the board a poem
    you boys will memorize.

Her quiet voice filled the silent room.
Thirty pairs of ears caught every
word. She told us that John Keys,
the donor of the tree would one
day soon appear to hear apology
from these "miscreants"
whose "maliciousness" had trashed
his gift, that "these three" would
recite to him in chorus
the famous poet's verse.

More than half a century has passed.
I have not forgot a word of it.

    I think that I will never see
    a poem as lovely as a tree.

That's just for starters.
Here's the ending.

    Poems are made by fools like me
    But only God can make a tree.

I can recite the whole thing.
Trust me.

THE YOUNG PASTOR DOES HIS FIRST FUNERAL

At the cemetery the ground squished
under our feet. Huddled under umbrellas
the gathered stood shoulder to
shoulder in ranks like a mute choir.

I was new at burying.
I'd met the dead man only once
or twice, knew him only as
a face, a name. He was, I thought
so then, old. I said the words
that were expected, ended with "Amen."

Now what? I thought as silence
dripped. Slowly, breaking ranks,
the mourners turned and frog-stepped
around puddles to their cars.
The widow lingered. Watching her,
I supposed and later was to know, that
grief is mostly standing in the rain.