My heart bows to the field streaked
by the sun’s rare currency this morning
to the worries that call my name
over and over like I am their favorite child
to the ridiculous kindness
of the wild turkeys’ chatter
to you who’ve called
me stranger, friend, lover
to you who’ve sung me to sleep
and kissed me in doorways
to you who’ve made space
for me on this window-ledge of words—
And you on the edge of the field, I bow to you
all in shadow, your patience outlasting us all
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Oh, this one is particularly lovely.
A VALEDICTION
All that it takes to remember that I am still with you
is this morning’s sun, glaring from a clear blue sky
and I have never absconded, never left your side
even when I found myself at the edge of the field
merely a part of your life’s curious appurtenances,
someone you’d remember when the muezzin calls
from his minaret, or angelus intoned from emporia
microphones, or when the dry season lends penitence
its hauteur from random worshippers of a crucifixion
forgotten in the hill of skulls, a mocking flagelation.
I will be there when litanies of pain fill your evenings,
I will be there when you lose all faith in love or dreams.
At the edge of the field, I will be there, waiting for you
in the shadows, until you finally stop running away from me.
—Albert B. Casuga
a sacro