The Road of Imperfect Attentions

“… Hide me in the shadow of your wings.” ~ Psalm 17:8

We wake when the light has touched
the window-blinds, or to the sound

of wheels skimming early across asphalt.
And it is as though another day opens,

one door among many in passageways so long,
even the industry of carpenter ants might

falter. It is so hard to heft a pannier
of provisions from one gallery

to the next— But sometimes I think
I glimpse a familiar figure up ahead, robed

in saffron: gesturing Get up, shoulder
the load; keep pace, keep moving along
.

Time teaches a lighter tread: or
the body bound to gravity must shed

layer after layer. What progress is tracked,
comes only in the manner of what’s discarded:

powdery frass, fine shavings of wood
highlighting paths we’ve tunneled.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Migrant LettersIn the Country of Lost Hours →

4 Comments


    1. DISCARDED DAYS

      What have we discarded cutting through tunnels
      we must have plodded to quarry from lives we
      might have been accidentally given? What loves
      have we found, what hearts have we lost? Layers
      of clay, cracked stones, and silt could build us our
      houses of hurts and ruptured dreams. Not a home.

      But we take care to wake up to days we can shape,
      to moments we could mould like delicate bowls
      whence we share victual and drink for our hungry
      and thirsty souls. When travel becomes a burden
      of faithlessness or pain, we call each other out:
      Be brave, hold on, take on the world if we must!

      When these passageways fall dark, we walk on.
      After all, our lives are not made of discarded days.

      —Albert B. Casuga
      07-31-11

      Reply

  1. Fine poem, Luisa! I liked the imagery, and it’s probably the first time I have ever seen the word “frass” used in a poem.

    Reply

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