UNVEILING

It was always my father who said
the grace before we ate. It never occurred
to me to ask why. It was the way
things were. What puzzled me,
though I never thought to ask,
was intenda juice. We never
drank it, I'd never seen it, but it
appeared in every mealtime prayer.

 I believed it was one of those
mysterious necessary words
we heard at church like salvation
and sanctify and atonement.

Years passed. A visiting preacher
came for a meal and, according
to protocol, Dad asked him
to say the blessing. He pronounced
his words precisely. He prayed:
And bless this food to its
intended use. At last I understood,
though, truth be told,
I preferred the mystery.

WHAT IF . . .

Put yourself some place in a story.
You can be the center of attention:
Captain Ahab, Cleopatra, Gatsby,
Samson, Hamlet, Goldilocks.
You choose.

However, you’ll have more freedom
and more fun if you select a minor character,
someone who stands at a discreet distance
yet close enought to take it all in,
the proverbial fly on the wall.
You’ll be able to move around
without attracting inconvenient curiosity.

Besides, it will be much safer.
You’ll have a chance for a happy ending.

ALL SAINTS

There are some few whose
goodness is almost visible
and palpable. They shine
in the dark. They exude.
They are rare as rubies.
They are as dangerous
as they are harmless.
They don't know it
which is essential.
I've beheld some,
known some.
So have you.
Name them.

ON A MONTANA MOUNTAIN

 Tilted meadow generously sprinkled with
 yellow fawn lilies each a miniature miracle
 mid-June morning crisp clean cool
 I am seated next to a hip high stack of firewood
 and visited by natives of the place
 chipmunks who stare and twitch atop the wood
 and stay to entertain for half an hour
 so long as I stay still

PHOTOGRAPH

There is a photograph taken
when I was four or so.
I’m sitting on my father’s shoulders.
He is standing in the huge garden
where he loved to go
on summer Saturday afternoons.

On his head is his standard issue
feedcap. Both of us are grinning
at the photographer, my mother.
Too young to think of winning
or losing or what it means to worry,
I am sitting on my father’s shoulders,

held firmly and securely by
by his strong arms. I know
I can not, will not, fall.
My trust is absolute.
But I am only four or so,
sitting on my father’s shoulders.

AVIAN ARCHITECT

The robin’s nest in the hawthorn tree
has a new feature: a long strip
of zebra grass that extends a foot
beyond the nest on both sides.

It’s hard not to believe the builder
has added an artistic flourish,
a creative touch he is sure
his mate will appreciate.

I hope she does.

UNCLE FRANK PAYS A VISIT

Before you leave, you've got to see
Beamesderfer's Hardware. It's our little town's
closest claim to fame. It sits on the corner
of Elm and Main. The ancient sign
out front modeslty announces "Hardware."

 Derfy, that's what everybody calls him, is
in his 80's and knows the name and size
of every screw and bolt that's ever been
manufactured. They're scattered all over
the store but he knows exactly where. 
Walk in the place and you'll swear 
you're back in 1947.

Once, just for fun, I told him I needed
a left-handed monkey wrench.
Without cracking a smile, he walked
to the back of the store and brought
back a rusty wrench. "I've been
saving this," he said, "for the next
jackass who asked for one.
Eleven dollars and seventy-five cents."
The look on his face told me I'd better pay.
I did.