As he grew ever older he said
he wanted a sudden unanticipated death,
“In my sleep preferably” he added
with an unmeant chuckle.
It would be a good way to go,
I imagine, but it denies those
who will most mourn his passing
the chance to hope for a miracle.
And no matter when it happens,
if it is sudden it will always be too soon,
only the protracted death is timely
for those needing to say goodbye.
You didn’t have to go, you know
I did enjoy having you around,
and I am sorely missing you now.
They said the odds of you
leaving, of even planning a departure
were small, but what did they know.
They didn’t know that I
had traits that would make
your departure more likely.
They didn’t say that once
the word was uttered, a departure
was no doubt inevitable, a when not if.
I’d like to think you’ll come back
but everyone agrees you cannot
absent some sort of miracle.
But at least, for now, I still
have your twin, and I will treasure
him as long as I can see to do so.
They should have had
an altar, even Abraham
had one when he was ready
to execute Isaac, and the ram
interceded, to his ultimate peril.
They should have had
a funeral, that is just common
sense and decency, but they
wanted no such thing, just
be done with it, bury it away.
I still mourn the death
of science for I know that it
operates without spite, without
anger, with simplicity, making
our world ever more livable.
Perhaps there will be
a resurrection, it has happened
before, although at times
it does seem that it would
take a rather large miracle now.
First published in Pages Penned in Pandemic, 2021
He says he cannot believe in angels
because he has never seen one.
I do not believe in his sort of angels, but not
for lack of visual confirmation, rather
that I live in a world that now
is so deeply in need, that an angel
might be our last, best hope, but
the scope of angelic miracles is
not likely wide enough to encompass
the utter disaster which we have created.
I tell him that I do believe in angels,
that I have met several in my life,
and scowl when he laughs so that
he must consider that I am serious,
and then he asks what an angel
looks like, so he will recognize one
when and if he ever sees one.
I advise him that you don’t have
to search all that hard, that you merely
need to be aware, and watch the face
of the baby when you stop and coo
at him or her as they lie in their stroller,
staring up at the always welcoming sky.
As winter closes in around us,
even here, the Great Blue Herons
go about building a nest,
inviting us to watch as they
make a home of gathered
branches and twigs, oblivious
to the state of our world,
of the pandemic gripping us.
We watch respectfully, knowing
that in this darkest of seasons,
we are about to witness
our own little miracle and will
soon bear witness to
the simple joy of birth.
If you ask, she says,
you take away the chance
of ever getting a miracle.
If you ask and it happens
you reduce it to a simple
prayer answered, no matter
how surprising the outcome.
You don’t see, he said
it’s not the final act
that is the miracle,
it’s that it actually happens
to someone presumptuous enough
to believe themselves deserving.
an old writer and his words 