Year
another for the Major1
Our Mutual Confession
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal
for what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men
and as present as God, my own presence
is bound to his who stands confounded
now as three, one above grave, one within
it, and me in between, one eye upon him,
the other upon sagging dirt where bones
and a ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in unstoried astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones are only
creases where once were names,
dates, even God's Word, chiseled
by a now unknown hand, an impression
only, one among many, reduced to
no plot but that of Providence left
to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only
blood, a flood of questions eventually
exhaled, and exhaling still, waiting
beside a white rock with wings,
ignoring fire,
leaning into changes.
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1 Major - my father was a major in the United States air force. He was a bomber pilot in WW2.
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