touches of the wings
Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,
you are sitting under your porch roof,
looking down through the trees
to the river, watching the rain. The circles
made by the raindrops’ striking
expand, intersect, dissolve,
and suddenly (for you are getting on
now, and much of your life is memory)
the hands of the dead, who have been here
with you, rest upon you tenderly
as the rain rests shining
upon the leaves. And you think then
(for thought will come) of the strangeness
of the thought of heaven, for now
you have imagined yourself there,
remembering with longing this
happiness, this rain. Sometimes here
we are there, and there is no death.
“1996, V” [“Some Sunday afternoon, it may be”] by Wendell Berry
On this bitter-sweet morning
I spot the jar,
lick spun honey from a spoon.
Remembering my Grandma Duvall,
always a mystery person for me,
always had that,
and other, oh-so-wonderful,
treats at her house.
As a little girl,
I loved it so,
I love it still,
tho it goes right to my head,
and makes me a bit dizzy.
My more mature tastebuds know
there must be balance.
Remembering the wisdom
of Solomon in Proverbs.
How kind words are like honey.
How important it is to choose the sweet,
right in the bitter.
I suck the last bit off the spoon,
smile a bit,
and move along.
Angels visit us in strange ways some days.
A bit of healing
right there in the kitchen.
A bit of grace
right in the mess.
A bit of heaven,
right here and now,
on a rainy Tuesday.