It takes so little, Poet, to feel your way
in the dark night of your soul,
nothing less than the Red Sea walls parting,
your mourning path now dry ground,

arms reaching to the narrow confines,
fingers touching and lifting as if transcribing
the contours of a face you almost recognize,
a gentle throbbing from one wall to the other,

a progression perceived as forward
out of the darkness. Walk tenderly, Poet,
as if all the herding dogs you have loved
are relaying you to a space of light.

And then they had pie.

No matter that his grandfather reported
Jack said, “soup,” but who wants soup
following a seaside morning communion
of charcoal-fired fish and bread

broken for recovering disciples,
ignorance their norm until now
cupping their hands to receive
“for mourning robe the oil of gladness.”¹

So, Poet, back to work. Leave off your grieving
for the shepherd of your flock having misstepped
his way through the valley of shadow searching
for you, calling your name, and you turned a deaf ear,

just more figurative language, your trite
stock in trade. Leave off! Choose
Love and Mercy. Fear not such
pedestrian-to-you abstractions.

You may discover that sweetness you can
sink your teeth into: the noun of pie.
And, Poet, your mouth full, go ahead,
laugh out loud!

“For ye shall go out with joy,
and be led forth with peace:
the mountains and the hills shall
break forth before you into singing,
and all the trees of the field
shall clap their hands.”
(Isaiah 55: 12, KJV)

Notes:

*John 21: 1-25 (The Jerusalem Bible)

¹ Isaiah 61: 3 (The Jerusalem Bible)