Soapbox

Cut me some slack Katie- it’s tough to find a word that rhymes with daughter.

For you, I’ll get up early in chill December dawn
To move where you would have me, your ever ready pawn.

For you I’ll slow my steps and teach you how to run
That you might learn by doing, though it’s longer ‘til I’m done.

For you I’ll tackle questions beyond the normal ken
Of saint or grand philosopher, or any learned men.

For you I’ll hold on tightly and never let you stray:
For you I will let go, that you might walk away.

For you I’ll lie awake on anxious Friday nights
Until I hear the front door slam and know that it’s alright.

For you I’ll pledge my earthly goods and those I’d like to own
For shoes and boots and soccer camp, and then your cap and gown.

For you’ll I’ll re-invent myself to meet your changing need.
I’ll always be your champion, and for your cause I’ll plead.

For you I’ll give my very self: my soul and breath and bone
You’re my message to the future- my gift, my heart; my son.

I’m always sorry to lose
The smell of fresh-cut grass,
The drone of bees in the flowers
And the lingering twilight of summer evenings.

But I am equally fond of
The tang of dry leaves,
Trees ablaze on every hillside
And the brilliant cerulean sky
Found only on certain autumn afternoons.

What I miss the most, though,
When the earth tilts
And another year crosses into autumn
Is sleeping with the window open
And waking in the murky dawn
To the sound of birds
Singing the sun over the horizon.

Clutching the children’s hands, giddy with relief,
They hurry toward the loading buses
And the hideous truth that awaits them.

Today they will learn that some lives matter
And some lives don’t.
As they are sorted, black from white,
Saved from damned.

Each one is God’s child
Made exactly as He wants them to be
But these beloved children,
Some clutching rag dolls,
Some with nothing at all,
Watch with desperate eyes
As the buses take a few to safety
Because we have only enough compassion
For the ones who look like us.

A river of blood later we’ll shake our heads and say,
“How could this happen?�
Were we too busy with taxes and crabgrass
To worry about Poland and Guatemala,
The killing fields of Cambodia,
About Congo and Rwanda?

Today
The greatest nation will look away
From the desperate eyes in Darfur.
I guess we don’t have time to care
About people who are so far away,
But I think God does.

They are, after all, His children
And all he asks is that we love them well.

For Larry- still with us, just no longer in the room.

In the silence left by the absence
of that labored breathing
which had marked their time
for so many hours,
they wring their soft cloths in warm basins
redolent with frankincense
and farewell.

To the darkest hour of night
they bring the warmth of candlelight
and soft murmurs of reassurance
to ears that can no longer hear them.
They wash and dress his frail form
with exacting tenderness,
as if such movements
could still cause the pain they once did.

With this final act of service
they restore a measure of dignity to a life
whose skills and knowledge, so joyfully accumulated,
were slowly, mercilessly scoured away
until nothing remained
of that which made him who he was
but a ready smile
and the bright soul behind it.

As they comb his hair
and lay him for a final time on clean sheets,
a soft sigh escapes pale lips
as if in relief at reaching
such a long journey’s end.