Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Stepping through a door

From First Things: "When Toward Evening, Light...." by Gary Whitby:
What is death but stepping through a door,
then onto summer lawns, with fathers waiting
or mothers chiding, “Why were you so late?”
—the clouds around their feet a billowed flooring

of golden cumulus reflecting more
of them than moon could manage, fallen sensate
into star-thronged eyes by a garden gate
when they were young.

And now that greeny roar
is gone. Now this: the tree, the swing, your dad
full-bellied still, your mother’s soaring smile
a wing; your brother racing from the house
and shouting “It’s my turn,” no longer sad

about his death.

And for a little while,

or ever, love is all that time allows.
Perhaps, ...or something better.

When Toward Evening, Light.... by Gary Whitby | Articles | First Things