the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.

a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.
oh sister, bring out the butter (good)
and place it on the table there
then rest your bones
and welcome home;
for you we’ve always got a chair
i heard the voice rise and fall,
passion and hesitation twinned in its timbre.
morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
what we call the beginning is often the end.
the young grass stands slight
and fragile against the cold.
he was the quiet one.
red hair, glasses, freckles;
more sarcastic, or shy,
than his funny brother —
more intense than easy-going.
or, at least, that’s how i
remember him.
the streetcar opened six years ago,
and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
it always catches you off guard
that first full look into the face, into the eyes
one sunday morning i went to
a feast of wine and wafers
where the children of God knelt
in reverence and silently received
their meal from white-robed saints.
lift up your eyes on high and see Who created these stars.
he whispered the promise’s opening like a prayer
as we gazed into the darkened skies.
he told me of the friend who, in patience,
spoke those words of wonder into the night
and how holy awe reopened his own eyes.