A poem a day, for Holy Week:
my practice of attentiveness and watchfulness.
The old basin sits, cracked and chipped, at the intersection,
Where the hallway meets the dining room, and guests
Simply can't avoid it; not if they're here for supper anyway.
They can go around it, of course, if that's their thing--
Around it, ignoring the brave and brittle chair at its side.
Eventually, though, the old host points in that direction.
One eye on the door you entered, another on the table,
You pull at your socks, pulling one, then the other, off.
This seems to take forever, but doesn't bother him in the least.
He's smiling, as if he's sat just there, in your place, many times.
Distracted by biscuits set out, or an apple pie in the oven,
You're not looking when he pours out the pitcher,
All that water, cold and clean, and it finds every pore,
Every muscle, every nerve's ending and soul's beginning.
And the toe you stubbed this morning before breakfast
Now wiggles with delight, you're sure of it;
And you had no idea toes could do that kind of thing--
Wiggle with delight, welcome grace, embrace the future.
But he's passing the plate of biscuits now, and it's heavy,
A holy kind of heavy--like the continents of the planet,
Round and warm and alive, moving around the table,
From your hand to hers, from hers to his and back.
And you find yourself watching the door, the same one,
To see who might be arriving now, whose feet wait to be washed,
Because that inconvenient intersection is holy ground.
You're sure of it now.
And you can't wait for your chance.
Maundy Thursday
4.1.21
DGJ
