Afterwards: September 2001
Wind and sky with one intent, implacably somber.
The air, heavy with sorrow, unable to weep, weighs us down.
Have our hearts become sodden graves, unquiet with festering sorrow?
But disaster bequeathed us the living, each person you see,
the soul’s body armor in shreds, the awful secret revealed
that flesh feeds only on the moment granted,
that we dance on trap doors.
The living are suddenly ours to see for the first time,
to study in tender discovery, adorning the Earth,
glowing like coins of gold sifted through the fingers of God.
Our charges, our wards, our gifts.
They are ours, we are theirs. These are the terms of the will.

Only the instant
receives our homage.
Seconds shower like sparks
shaved away
from the whirling wheel,
brilliant and gone;
our rush unhushed
as if we wished
to split time
like the atom.
Who knows that our true
vocation
is
waiting?
The hardest of all the arts.

Thank You
It’s doubtful anybody ever said
that breaking your arm or hand was a
sure fire way to have a beautiful
Christmas. But, oddly enough, it
turned out to be true. Not only that,
but Christmas came in welcome waves
all during Advent with every grace
filled visit – there was no waiting for
it. Our post ER and hospital
recollections are collages of beaming
faces and helping hands bearing gifts,
food brought by celestial caterers,
angels disguised as friends. All
arriving according to God’s incredibly
exquisite timing.
Thank you so much.

(Poems used with permission.)

 

... and a poem by one of Ron's favorite poets, Robert Burns

A Grace Before Dinner
O thou who kindly dost provide
For every creature's want!
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide,
For all Thy goodness lent:
And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent;
But, whether granted, or denied,
Lord, bless us with content. Amen!