Going home

There's a time when the angry daylight buzz,
The sharp tick of fingers on keyboards,
Hundreds of echoing pavement steps,
Stalling, starting motors, honks,
Shouts, alerts, staccato heartbeats,
Falsetto laughter
Fade, fade, disappear in shadows and lights.

Not a silent night, no, a night alive
And filled with gentle sounds
Of washing up, or television laughter,
A pair of bundled walkers on the sidewalk,
Convoys of trucks far away,
Laden with products and presents.
Here the air fills noses with welcome, like
Roasted garlic and warm bread and chocolate chip cookies,
Drifting quietly beside the smell of clean laundry,
The cold honest scent of the earth,
A delicate wisp of perfume.

Listen longer, hear other sounds:
Harsh sounds, hurt sounds, crying, silence.
Look longer where the light is cold
In lonely rooms below, above, where the man,
The woman, the child takes up fist or bottle,
Shoots a slicing onslaught with abandon,
Or perhaps sits all alone,
Fighting alone.
See her at the darkened window,
Motionless panic, silent and frantic and drowning.
See him huddled against the brick,
Eyes down, only ragged arms,
Just these two arms against destruction
And so much hate.

A child will see and a child will hear.
I can help. Can't you help?
Through long years still a hummingbird heart
Feels the golden flame in every face,
The mark of God, dignity,
Aches for anyone outside the glow
Of a warm home with comfortable occupants
In comfortable silence and comfortable arguments
That end sometimes with every gut sore from laughter,
A sleepy peace in every woolly head
Brushing teeth, happy to dream.

Reflected fire in the dim sky fades.
Now let all drink oblivion.
Carry love and triumph, hope and fear
Alike, alike
Into mist-wreathed holloways, beaches, and prairies,
Search time-forgotten paths behind the windows
Of the soul to find the lost word,
The lost song,
Lost sight
Until the search is spent
And fire is born again
Another day.

First Winter's Night

At dusk in November, the first winter’s night   

Crept into the pale blue air.        

When the north wind spilled its rich, deep dyes,

The light in the skies drew my eyes to the glass

And I witnessed the last sun of autumn pass.

The moment had gone. With a breath I returned

To the labor that fills each day,

To work that required four thousand breaths more

Before I opened my door and had done.                             

Too tired to wash, too tired to clean, but I let

Habit pull me through the routines.

Something outside seemed to push on the walls,

Pressed the air heavy and dim on my brow,

And too soon I slept by the lamp at the window,

The only sound three ticking clocks.

All unaware, stillness changed to a feast

When they came light on feet shod in blue, gold, and white,

With a piper’s reel and the scent of the night.

They lit every candle and toasted the flames

With a rich draught of dark honeyed mead.

Scattering crumbs of spice-cake and pie,

With a whirl and a twirl they leaped laughing by,

And the caper carried them under the sky

Once again, to dance on the paths of the moon.

But I heard the pipe and I caught the perfume,

Recalled dancing myself in the light of the moon

Long ago, and the moment of memory pierced

Like an arrow, and fiercely I felt the hot gladness

And sorrow roll down.

I leapt up and opened the door to the night

And burning there in the ink-dark sky

Met the bright eyes of all of the ancient world’s stories

Sharp-cut and clear beyond two evergreens,

My sentinels bristling stoic and tall.

In new awe of them all

I drank deep of the air, tonight a cold stream,

Clean and alive with the heartsongs of trees.

Then blowing a kiss to the moon, I

Reached up to the stars to offer a bow

In respect, and I joined the invisible crowd

In their dance on this first winter’s night.