A Different Kind Of Speaking

Golden boulevards 
lined with honey 
locust leaves are strewn 
from curb to curb
like glitter scattered 
in elementary days. 
It sticks to the glue 
of childhood, guiding us 
each autumn with a wink 
of light, reminding us that 
one strong breeze and
a look in the right direction
might soon sweep 
the celestial city
across this very road. 

Pale green maple leaves
paraglide on down from 
woodland overseers.

I’ve been spotted.

The oaks join in, taking 
their aim with acorns,
propelled down, 
quickened by the earth
which lends its gravity as aide.

I lift my shirt
over my head, a poor
defense from the barrage, 
and run, flailing each leg
forward, jumping as a kid might
during dodgeball, hoping
for a quick exit out
of the gymnasium.

It felt like crossfire. 

Leaves of green vines swing
their weightless legs over
the two large windows
of northern walls. Dancing
with the breeze, their offensive
line guards the sunlight 
from passing through to me.
I love watching them
die. And each October they creep
further into red and drop,
protecting no one anymore
from collecting the warm,
autumn blitz of light. 

Please don’t think 
that any man carrying
a camera is some kind
of professional,
dripping with experience, 
deadlifting years of wisdom 
behind that lens. 
And though I was out there 
in the woods
early, an hour too early 
for light, in fact,
I had not the time, with cheap 
binoculars and a tiny Nikon
draped across my chest, to explain
to the man with a telescope
fastened to his camera, stopping by
briefly before work, that the only
worthwhile thing I saw 
in the entire wood, known for 
its birds this time of year,
was the surprising presence
of two wild apple trees. 

When it’s cold inside and out
in the fragile moments of the morning
I wrap myself in velvet
skin, softer than my own
and catch newborn thoughts before
they cry. I must take it off to labor
in the coarse duties of the day, and
if I forget the thickened sweetness
of the sunrise, I need only return
to that barn door red, and the thin
white lines which open wide
and fold me in.

Their family arrived home
from weeks away, carried 
as a wave of the sea.
Rising from the car’s horizon,
splashing up the stairs,
crashing through the front door,
children spilled out
onto the floor. Parents, 
wet with weariness,
and packed bags soaked 
with dirty clothes 
surged into the kitchen
and back.
The water receded slowly,
and when it was gone
it left only a scattering of sand, 
a thin layer of foam,
and a momentary quiet
enough to believe
they were safely ashore.

All pastors feel
A burden from without
A burning from within
Of Glory 
That weighs heavy
But also 
Lifts them to the heavens.

A limestone path
Carved by men
Covered in silt
Up the glen

Seeds have fallen
Sown therein
Sprouts of flowers
Shoot up again

Loss of control
Nature’s win
Beautiful blossom
Spontaneous grin.

Rise over the rooftops
of the gingkoes and maples,
rise of the blazing sun of worship.

Peek through the spaces between,
past the glistening chimneys
within the congregated branches.

Move just an inch
and blinded by light,
streaming in the eternal,
beaming one inch closer 
to perfect sight.

Joined as one is
to Chicagoans in times past
across the lake
on the other side,
the same water,
similar sand
and beeches caress the beach.

Many feet up the bluff 
hallowed gables, eaves
expanded, exposed,
a ballroom party
of rest and rumble,
a time away.

So linked to the war,
prosperity followed.
How longings honor,
preserve and restore.
A hollowing hum
calls outside
down the many steps 
of summers before.