I admire his faith. Stronger than mine.
See how he glances skyward
while playing piano, not so
much consorting with as
allowing access the powers of ethers
that illuminate, in moments,
a radiance of being, an easy
willingness to be used for high purpose.
He is elsewhere and inimitably
present. He is otherwise engaged
while engaging, far and away,
yet in the room.
I am not alone in this attraction
to mystery, to quiet men
with things on their minds
to his internal arguments his
words not said. But he has faith in
my chafing, inelegant patience,
for meeting on landings not
his, not mine, but somewhere
between often less than sublime
In the house we make of our lives.
There’s a steady
lope to him, tireless traveller,
a shape to his brain, he has faith
where I falter, believes we will find
what we lose in the forest, things
we love and let go, in the shape of
what changes, gentle gestures,
hello, he believes, bottom line
in the power of kindness, the
beauty of waiting, in nerve, less
in nervousness. This courage
to walk in the dark, run the
ridge, play the chord that opens
worlds, and needs no words.
Early Morning Poems 