For T. M.
When I was young, but grown,
On the sandspit of a lake called Minatare,
I witnessed him walk through a litter of glass.
In the whiteness of the noon-tide,
The glass bits glistered like gem stones.
Above, he shimmered in the waves of heat,
More beautiful as an aged man,
Than the many who were young.
He was weathered, and freckled with spots
From the sun. His halo of hair, whiter
Than the feathers from an owl. His bare feet,
Harder than hooves to the crunch.
Fierce with focus, he sang to himself
In a tongue long inflected with myth.
Stooped, examining the glass,
Now and then, with one hand,
He turned a piece of it over and over,
Making it glitter.
His other hand held what he kept.
Disfigured by distance,
He stopped and looked at me,
Wincing from the burden of majesty.
Gesturing with the fist shut tight,
He purposely showed me the way,
A way of destiny.
His knowing look said to me,
“You know this.”
Then, he continued divining his trove.
Mesmerized, I watched him disappear,
A quivering apparition, a mirage.
The line of the lake grew bluer, darker
Than blue, and the trees on the far side
Seemed leafless and impenetrable.
On the edge of that beach,
I stood my ground for years. Sheltered
By the twisted trunks of a grove,
I stood there silently, with both fists balled,
Until now.
On this day in June, in a year of the Lord,
I sit in the sun, in your study,
Ensconced in a comfortable chair.
My hands shaped like a prayer at ease,
I release the treasured words,
One by one, until the mosaic is complete,
And his image is an icon of glory between us.
We have nothing to fear from him, now;
Not from his willful waywardness,
Nor from his solipsism.
His eccentricity is censured
By the kiss of this moment.
Proclaiming the truth of his beauty,
I am sharing him with you,
As someday, I shall share him with others.
The arm that extends, the hand that opens
As the oracle sings,
This is enough today, as it shall be tomorrow.
We walk with the saints.
I point to the window:
Pressed against the diamond panes,
The wreath-top of a tree
Withstands the wind.
A bloom of red brushes
Is hiding the emerald crown.
The thrushes have descended
And reside there,
For the trunk is stout,
The branches gnarly and entwining.
They flit into the vestibule
To look upon us, then return
To their sanctum for sleep.
Within the circle of flowering leaf,
Secretly, they hover,
A knot of wings not easily seen,
A drum of hearts too faint to hear.
There is only the buzz of a bee,
A reminder, to keep us humble.
June 12th – June 18th 2011
June 24th 2011
July 7th 2011
stevengoldenpoetry 