Thursday, March 25, 2021

A Poem for Bern (June 4. 2004)



                      I watch her mow

From the deck of our house, I watch her mow.
This is a woman I knew as a girl
And loved as only a young boy can love--
Selflessly, nakedly, longing always.
I watch her mow and learn not the pattern
She fulfills. Like her--it's beyond my ken.
Her hair, braided, tossed about by movement,
Is almost as long as I remember
When we were children. Children, yes--
Tasting love like new dew of the morning--
Her hair was like a dream I dared not have
And she the wondrous dream my life would be
(Nevermind some nightmares along the way.)
So, I watch her mow the grass in our yard,
Noticing the muscles of her brown arms,
The sweat clinging there, glowing in the sun--
A woman whose love I'm not worthy of--
Who loves me none-the-less. And it's that love
That creates my worthiness: makes me real.

I go cut cucumbers and boil the corn.
I'll saute the soft shell crabs, drink some wine,
Remembering how that late sun did shine
And how she shone, mowing grass and my heart.



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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.