Saturday, July 16, 2016

In this night

The moon is almost full
but the clouds make it only
an image through gauze.

There is a concert
at the park
across from the high school,
but I can only hear echoes,
not the words,
only the rhythm.

There is a spider
who keeps building
a web that touches
our porch post
and banister
and a wind chime
of wolves
that my daughter
gave me years ago.

There are little moths
I call 'millers'
(from my childhood, surely)
who bat against the light
on our back porch
and, from time to time,
rush my face
as I sit smoking.

And there are the crickets
in my head
that are called tinnitus
and are always there
on the back porch
or wherever I am.

The clouds will move
and the moon will shine
and the clouds will move
and the moon will shine.

The concert will end
whether I hear it end
or not.

And because the spider
is so unwise
the web will break
if not by morning
some time tomorrow.

The little moths, most of them,
live only a few days
and won't bump against
the light on the porch
beyond Monday.

The crickets in my head continue.
But when I come to die
we will say goodbye
and part forever.

Like this night
nothing endures.
Change is the reality.
Permanence is a myth.
Like the sea,
all roll on.

Day will come, surely,
to end this night.

And then, night again.

Rhythm is what goes on.
And on and on and on....


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About Me

some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.