At Their Feet

These plants on my windowsill
watch me day in and out,
looking about my office, they
track my comings and goings,
sniggering at my sweltering
sense of self-importance.

These plants are close to the earth
and hold the long view, knowing that
instantaneously – in a geological sense – I
will be in the earth feeding their fellows.

These plants also cheer me on, when I
close my laptop and play with the rocks
in the silica-now-glass container on
“my” oak tree-now-desk.

These plants weep when
I fail to taste my apple, when
I forget to thank them, when
I refuse to listen to their call
to pinch myself
alive.

These plants are poets of the first order:
Aloe Vera and Christmas Cactus – and when
I am wise, I sit at their feet, in a manner of speaking.

Maybe Naught

Maybe this poetry thing is
not for me. Maybe
I’m more
prose or
plaint or plain
old crossword.

Maybe I should just
take this sorry note-
book and tear out
this page to
start a fire and
that to
role a smoke or simply turn the lot
of them into airplanes, or go
artisanal with origami.

But no, no, not
yet. Still I
scratch, still I
abide this agony, this
being borne by
Word, whose
way is
sheer silence, too.

Poignant, this Pause

In error’s midst
he comes.
In winter’s mist
he comes. He comes
bearing humility,
birthing service. Patient
waiting becomes him whom
the heavens hold forth for one
such as you, for one such as
I. We too wait. We await
this coming,
this tulip bulb,
this winter wheat,
this pregnant idea.
Poignant, this pause.

Waiting Gains

My wife and I have slowly come to the conclusion that it is time to sell the Jetta. It has been a good car for us, and maybe even to us. But it is time to move along, and a new Golf has caught our eyes. So, we spent Friday night cleaning the nooks and crannies of the car, and yesterday I visited the internet to get a sense of a reasonable price to ask. I also discovered that the Ontario government demands that I provide a Used Vehicle Inspection Package, a document outlining the history of the car, etc. This meant a trip to Service Ontario.

I was hoping for a quick in and out. Wrong. I got my queue number: D14. I sat down, among a number of Served-by-Ontario aspirants: a couple of couples with little ones who played electronic games that mewed, baaaed and clucked. A young man beside me had a hrrmph on his face. I heard a little French, giggles from a little girl being chased by her dad. I took my seat in proximity of the one and only service agent. I could easily hear the interchange. A senior citizen was there to get something, but she was not quite sure what it was she wanted or needed.

I began to listen carefully; noting that the conversation was going in a circle. The same questions provoked the same answers that brought forth yet another reiteration of an early question, and round and round it went. Other people came in. No one went out. The young man beside me fidgeted. I fidgeted. I looked down at my hands; surprised to discover that they were not holding a book. I never go to these places without a book. No book; no posters on the walls; no reading material. There was nothing but a circular conversation to hear, and the increasing contractions of patience.

I tried to make the most of the moment. I closed my eyes, and focused on being still. And then I heard it. The service agent’s voice: it was repose. She did not betray a hint of impatience. She did not rush the elderly woman along with shortened vowels, or clipped consonants. Her pace was not harried, not hurried, only humane.

Eventually another wicket opened, and things moved along. When it was my turn to go to the wicket, the first woman served me along with equanimity. She asked me a little about my car as forms printed. There was nothing exceptional about our interchange, aside from my memory that she was what I would wish to be: poised, patient and personable.

Little moments like this make life rich. They give us glimpses into what the human community can be: patiently caring for those who are a little confused, in need of help, and anxious about what is so straight-forward and quotidian for the rest of us. Take a moment to listen for these voices: calming, caring and non-anxious, their register is angelic.