A Kibuye Sabbath Poem

 (from Eric)

The day spins and the week whirls
and I am drawn again
to wrestle with the cantankerous back door lock
in order to walk out onto the back porch.

To look again on the line of trees

steady and long-suffering, 

though they bend constantly in the wind.

To hear the rustle,

bounding through the upper boughs

until they settle again exactly as they were.

To see the cedar and the bamboo and the hibiscus

planted as saplings by my friend

now reaching overhead and thriving,

rooted for the future.

In the shade of the porch roof,

the concrete is cool

unyielding and refreshing as an anchor.

The half-wall we built as a possible screened-in porch,

still open after many years,

and now a seat

on the edge of shade and sun.

The nearby bird-calls,

constant and so close,

yet I can never seem to find them.

The laughing dove, yes,

but this crescendo-ing call might be a chat or a shrike;

I'm not sure after all these years.

Domesticated mysteries.

Overlook them all your life if you wish,

they stand ready to be a source of wonder

whenever you would be open and quiet.

I return to the porch when the day roils,

to remember that it is,

and that there is something else.

The sunlight alternately dappled and matte

as the clouds move across a heaven so low

compared to the steadfast love of the Lord.

I return to be reminded who I am.

Where I am.

To see again a moment in a story

with a beginning and a flow and an end.

To feel again the warmth of the sun,

the brush of the breeze,

the crackle of grass at the end of the dry season.

To remember the textures, the layers

of unmerited glory that surround me

in the peace and the pain

of this given life.