Intermission w/reflection

First, many thanks to Lesley Wheeler for her Virtual Salon series–in this one, she reviews/interviews Elizabeth Savage and Yours Truly: Virtual Salon No. 6

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Herewith, a different sort of response for National Poetry Month; and I’m not sure I would call it a poem so much as a reflection–indeed, a prayer. It’s too sentimental to work into a finished piece, perhaps. Let’s call it an intermission, as I have at least one more poetry collection to respond to before April closes.

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Easter Prayer for My Dad

A wedge of mackerel clouds points to the southeast horizon where just beyond

a low hill church bells ring for Easter morning and a woodpecker states

chuck chuck chuck as it makes its straight flight across field from one dead

ash tree to another, blackbirds calling wooker-chee after the bells cease chiming.

I think of Dad, standing at the pulpit, hands raised in grace or supplication, his

voice sonorous in the high-ceilinged church, a man wearing a robe and collar

and white silk embroidered in gold having laid away the purple of sorrow and

preparation. All the church’s raiment white, and we the congregants wearing our

best clothes not to impress our neighbors but to let God know we are grateful and

this is the best we can do. We know it’s not enough, Dad tells us, the huge Bible

open before him, but God will understand our good intentions.

Years later I develop questions such as if no human can understand the mind

of God—thank you, Job—or know His ways, how can a human assure us of such magnanimity on God’s part? To which Dad answers, faith, which has no reason,

ergo the question’s moot. But years-ago Easters I sat on the smooth oak

pew, staring at my best shoes, which always pinched, and pretending that

left foot and right foot were conversing or perhaps arguing until the organ’s

major chords and the words “All rise” brought me back to the community

of believers and Dad’s bass voice led us along the five-barred staffs, stacked verses,

and triumphant alleluias of “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today.” And I knew

I was not good enough but believed that I could be forgiven, and if Dad has

offered me anything I can rely on it has been forgiveness—so today, as the

woods begins to soften into green and the chickadee pronounces its name

incessantly from the beech—Dad, I’ve so much to be grateful for.

                          Amen.

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Church of my childhood, First Presbyterian Church of Hamptonburgh, New York