Sunday, August 2, 2009

A post for Ed, a person I love

A poem by Michael Dickman (The End of the West), because it feels like winter inside.

Returning to Church

Walking through the snow with her was enough, quiet enough, white
breaking beneath
our boots
White then dirt

then concrete

Not a word

I watched the black branches of the oaks gliding above us
like the sadows of koi

Shadows, she was singing


I had forgotten
all the promies they make
at church, singing or

not singing--

A new body
A living water

I wanted to be very still and listen to her voice moving out in front of me

There are two houses

The dark and quiet
house of God
and the house of her



The light through the stained-glass window was snow

Do you want to be home forever?
It's all right if you do

Kiss me in the pew among strangers who aren't strangers but His
other homeless children

The light through the stained-glass window
was snow, not Grace
not Spirit

Not, lightly
His fingers


Everyone's so nice!

And they don't even know me, they don't think they have to, hand
after hand
they take my hand

A prayer of bone

The old, beautiful
Wurlitzer rising
behind us

It underwrite all our blessings, note for note, on its way up into the

I don't have to explain

Hand after

I don't have to be embarrassed


The black branches of the oaks glide agove us like the shadows of koi

beneath leaves
and mud

What does God promise?

It's winter, so
the orange and red bellies of the fish
look like small fires

Soon everything will ice over

There won't be
any room, not

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