Three Poems

Kevin Nance

We sit in circles

& ponder the significance of birds,

the red-tailed hawk riding the sky above the old farmhouse,

the bobwhites with their healing two-tone call

that Brother Paul now hears so rarely,

the sunset a great firebird spreading its scarlet wings

across the west horizon in early evening,

reflected in the dregs of the drained lake.

We’re the last band of seekers in this place,

the house sold off to the distillery next door as a bed & breakfast

with no meditation room, no portraits of Jesus or Merton or Buddha.

The air’s at once thin as a veil between worlds

yet thick with benediction

as we embrace our fate as punctuating spirits

completing a circle, the last in a line of poets & pilgrims

that goes back half a century.

Some of us are young, sprinting down the shaded lane

or giggling with our Berea classmates late at night,

while one of us wonders if this hobble upstairs to bed on a bad knee

might be his last in this world.

Still there’s time to consider the meaning of trees—

from the benefits of shinrin-yoku, forest bathing,

to the silver poplar shedding its nightgown in the yard,

& down the road this autumn afternoon

the great sycamore at the Abbey of Gethsemani,

its naked torso the color of bones, its outstretched arms

sheltering us as we lie on the dying grass,

its fingertips testing the wind.

Back at the house, we attune ourselves to the quiet.

Sounds that might have been lost in the cities we came from

reach us here: the distant cock crow

announcing one more morning,

the low toll of the Vespers bell

that rolls down the hill & lodges in our spines,

& the long high chime with which we close our final circle,

reverberating in the thin space between this world & the next.

1

Fog rolls down Big Hill.

A boat on the reservoir

vanishes in mist.

2

Hepatica, wild

orchids, trout lilies, this day,

all ephemeral.

3

The wind in the trees

makes the sound of a rainstorm,

a rushing river.

4

Three buzzards circle

high in the sky, nonchalant,

taking in the sights.

5

Afternoon shadows

stretch across the lake toward me,

their arms beckoning.

6

The sun sinks behind

the ridge. Oh let me lie down

in all that stardust.

7

In the bright morning

a flock of geese flies over,

honking, coming home.

I’ll look up at the sky

& float among the clouds,

singing out their names

like old friends I haven’t seen forever.

I’ll flit flower to flower,

flapping my wings so fast that no one can see them

& sticking my nose in everywhere,

sampling the nectar.

I’ll lie down in a green pasture

& my arms will sprout the thorns of a thistle,

my fingers will bloom with purple petals

& you’ll admire me from a safe distance.

I’ll swim again in the river I was baptized in

& keep on going,

breathing through my gills & flicking my fins

as the current takes me where it will.