Calling to you
“while below, the foghorns bend to their work,
bringing home what is coming home,
blessing what goes.”
. (Jane Hirshfield)
I can remember that I read to you.
November, it was – in Prague, of course.
You were sitting in that chair
with the Communist upholstery,
that creaked each time you moved
to pick up a stitch (creaking like
the masts of an ancient clipper,
out on the ocean, looking for
treasure and mythical beasts.)
I remember reading to you;
I don’t know what, precisely.
A poem, no doubt – something
I’d written, while you were out,
hunting for groceries or off to the park
or drinking white wine with one of your
hopeful yoga class students.
It’s April now, many years later.
I am still reading to you – calling you home.