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The Forgotten Ones

Susan Pigott

Susan Pigott

Robert A. Fink

 

The Forgotten Ones

for the Hardin-Simmons University faculty—
the best-kept secret . . .

Hidden artisans going about the graceful shaping
of clay into vessels for cupping water to parched lips,
infinite mixing of mortar on a board, laving brick atop brick
to withstand the fist of wind, the crash of waters,
the trembling of solid earth. Theirs is the careful touch
of brush tip to palette, sharpened pencil to fragile,
translucent parchment, bird song rising from a reed flute.

Theirs is the breathing in, breathing out of our world,
privileged intimates with Mystery—
the bush aflame, unconsumed; the sea parting
as if two hands, palms conjoined, opened
into a bowl of sweet oil, the balm of anointment;
the Word defining light and dark, shape from void,
dust to flesh to dust.

Theirs is the daily art of graceful imperfection,
gathering no stones, sounding no trumpets, called
to avert disaster, reintroducing God to his children,
bathing the wounds of the stranger beaten and rolled
into the ditch, bearing him to a place of feather bedding,
clean sheets, leaving sufficient coin for his care, and having
done all deemed necessary, departing as they came.