“He appointed the moon for seasons:
the sun knoweth his going down.”
(Psalm 104: 19, KJV)
“Man goeth forth unto his work
and to his labour until the evening.”
(Psalm 104: 23, KJV)
Forgive me, it’s the cello. It’s Thomas Merton’s Prayer,
neither he, nor I, having an idea where we’re going,
neither of us knowing, for certain, ourselves,
or the road ahead, where it will end.
Katrina told me a scientist studied the brain,
how, I don’t know, of people having died,
then being shocked back to their lives,
each confirming having seen their life
in panorama, a 360-degree surprise at how each
singular, recalled-event contained, and maybe
transformed, passers-by, strangers and friends caught
within the dead (temporarily) person’s surprising circle.
Would there be loved and lost dogs in mine, and would
is not a question but a plea, confirmation of that place
Jesus promised to prepare for his followers.
Would that there be room for Wrangler and Bosco,
Mitzi and Susie, and sweet Kianna and Kita,
Chelsea–please, running beside my friend Ken
laughing, his limbs whole and joyful.
And maybe me looking around and saying
thank you and maybe receiving a grateful
nod from at least one serendipitous
street person, say number 359. And Lucy,
still living, would be waiting for her treat.
It’s Ave Maria on Pandora, maybe Alisa Weilerstein
or Yo-Yo Ma, or especially ten-year-old Sibley Rose,
her first recital, poised elegant, and Lucy
sleeping at my feet, and I am writing
on the leather-covered legal pad my poet son,
Jon, gave me, that deserves metaphor and
symbol and no-more-night, no-more-sea,
its monsters of the deep, allusions
that I’ll settle for, figurative language
sheltering me–who I am, where I’m going,
believing, with Thomas Merton, that the desire
to please God does in fact please him
and will lead us by the right road though
seeming lost and in the shadow of death
like the innocents in Ukraine and Gaza and Israel
believing God is ever with them
and will never leave them
to face their perils alone.
And I am grateful. Amen.
Have faith. Be steadfast.
Notes:
- No More Night: Revelation 22: 5
- No More Sea: Revelation 21: 1
- “The [Thomas] Merton Prayer,” Thoughts in Solitude, 1956, 1958, The Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemane, Farrar Straus Giroux.
A Thin Silence 