Sheltered: A Poem

The story of our friends' grown daughter's death in an auto crash two years ago moved us deeply, and since then, when I have been driving past the spot on our local road where it happened, I've thought about it a lot. 

I've thought about the things my friend told me - the county fair, the drunk driver coming out and swerving into the wrong lane, the school building next to the fair, the beloved grade school teacher out on errands - her death, the stories her mother told me about her, her favorite Scriptures, and the timing of it all. 

It became part of my mental map and my picture of the story of our community. 

When our friends shared this past Easter Sunday their testimony of how the Lord has given them hope even through this sorrow, it deeply moved me again. More pieces of the picture fit together. I was overwhelmed by the sense of God's timing and care in what otherwise could be called nothing but a hideous tragedy. 

Maybe it was remembering that her favorite Scripture verse was from Psalm 91 that began to bring the images that formed this poem. 

Sheltered

“For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.” - Ps. 91:11

“carried by the angels to Abraham’s side” - Luke 16:22

The heat waves shone on Route 11 And music from the fair Mixed with the hum of traffic On that afternoon. Unseen beyond the shimmering dust And glare, a crowd of white winged ones Hovered intent above the road Between the fairgrounds and the school. “You’ll want to stop that truck,” one had been told, “you’ve watched her well, swift, faithful one. But this time you will let it come, Because today she’s coming home.” The man who swaggered toward his truck To slam the gas and swerve hard drunk Did not know of that winged crowd, or of the daughter He was sending home. But they were waiting, Silent and prepared. No seconds passed between the crash And their swift hold upon their trust - “We’ve got you dear heart, all is well, You’re coming home.” Past treetops, cloud tops, galaxies And time, they carried her and laid her safe Inside the walls of home, and waited for Their Lord’s ‘well done.’ There, in the light of that loved Face No doubts, no ‘why?’ could dwell. Only the swelling song that drew her in, And further inward into its high joy - “Glory to Him!”

Warm Poetry in Winter

I woke in the dry winter morning, gazing at a barely dawn black window from a mountain of bedclothes, listening to the heater roar its morning serenade - and somehow began writing in my head about eating sugarcane on the street. I ended up with this poem, evoking a childhood moment in Nigg Village, inland from the mudflats along Guyana's north coast.

Eating Sugarcane On the Street

A pale gold stalk, fresh cutlass-peeled
in one hand; in the other, sweat as usual
and no destination in particular.
The breeze is off the sea.
Test the tenacity of teeth
to tear fresh sweetness from a stick,
reducing it to repeat waves of sugar on the tongue,
and well-spit wads of empty pulp,
lost quickly in the roadside jungle.

When you turn the corner,
you'll hit the breeze.
The stalk should last past two corners,
or two hundred steps
of rubber flip flops
shuffling daydreams on the dusty road.

I set the notebook and pencil down, noticing my blue sweater and the blue crochet blanket project lying on the desk, and thought about how the color blue, however cool it is listed on the color spectrum, is bright and warming in winter. So I picked up the notebook and scribbled one more set of lines on the bottom of the page.

Blue is the warmest color
on this winter's day; that spot
of blue between two shifting clouds
glows like the center
of a flame.

But what about red? and green?

Red is the warmest color 
on a winter's day;
the cardinal's breast that flames
out of the wind-stripped tree
is summer's fruit distilled

Green is the warmest color
on a winter's day
those young sprouts leaning sunward
at the hungry window
burn with spring's brief promise
of long summer.

Time to start getting breakfast....