Sunday, May 11, 2008

PROMISE


This time of morning last Sunday
I was so tired
so tired
so tired
so tired of the blessings

I'd driven over the Sierra Nevada
spotted oil wells dotting the Llano Estacado
such beautiful names
for a wilderness
a wilderness

I've been miles deep in caverns
observing the roots of our art forms
toasted with fine wine
chilled by the Pacific's blue
become acquainted with deer
& contented cows

snapped away at picturesque
water fountains
& the majestic Grand Canyon
surrounded by French people
with their mellifluous sounds
spent time with my ambitious son 
touring the impossible lighthouse
overlooking a beach with the highest
concentration of white sharks in the world
viewed ancient Egyptian relics
seen a very fine breakfast or two
& a movie that left me wondering
what it means to love something

I loved it all

so much

The face above all others I saw
in Winslow, Arizona
a young Indian baby girl
profoundly sleeping on her father's shoulder
an elderly woman in Wal-Mart
sitting on a bench, waiting
(Was it for me?)
Her white bone adornments
She was so beautiful
that now the memory of her face
brings tears to mine

it was all so wonderful

that last Sunday morning
at just about this time
my weariness caused me to plow
several yards into the profusion
of black-eyed susans & queen anne's lace
gracing the median strip

I was only an hour from home

just like they say it could happen

There was a mist, 
the only drops of moisture
I had seen coming from clouds
the entire trip

A mist raining down just over the top of my car...

as if it were a personal rain

falling in through the open window

resuscitating the flowers

& me


Now I know there is something more

I always thought  

that there must be

Now I know there is

& it is 

Wonderful


4 comments:

reading_is_dangerous said...

there is always something more,
but it's especially pleasing when we are there
to witness it.

Beautiful poem.

:-)

Kristin said...

AJ,
I enjoyed this poem. Thank you. And I'm so glad you're okay.

Will said...

I'm happy you're still writing. Come by again -- this looks like my new blogging home....

Edita said...

//as if it were a personal rain//
So many things are ours and not ours at the same time, still ours...