“It was rare for the Lord to speak in those days;
visions were uncommon.” (1 Samuel 3: 1)
The Monarchs may have paused
on their perilous flight south, to Mexico,
my improbable bride mentioning this destination
over fifty years ago, not even a week married,
walking the hallowed battlefield, Manassas, Virginia,
and having recently returned, more or less whole,
from Viet Nam, I laughed (no, scoffed)
at such a destination, and recognized
the anger in this red-haired beauty’s eyes,
her silence the white phosphorous flash
I had tripped, too late, the first
of many such stumblings.
What the Monarchs may have believed
were fields of milkweed,
their only hope of salvation.
How could I explain what not dying
did to me? There were other butterflies,
dark-winged with streaks of orange, red tipped,
their slow beating a signal that only silence
could comprehend, that hard lesson.
Saint Francis knew the darkness,
not always of night, can lead to light,
that cliche new day, the wolf bowing
at the saint’s feet, nuzzling the palm
of each displaced friend from the streets
queued up at the door of City Light
Community Ministries, their names
recorded hope, the noontime meal
offered for all–Clara, who hugs me
and says tell your wife I love her;
Greg, who lays his duffle-bag burden down
for sweet tea and the saying of silent grace;
Big Mike who laughs at congestion
of the heart, what he knows we all
have earned, why we gather to serve each other,
why we hear God speaking beneath the raucous,
hopeless joy against our collective sadness,
that rare gift of consolation.
A Thin Silence 