Take a breath, put on the kettle

Poems that (quietly) keep going

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

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Both of these poems have appeared on this page before, but not in conversation. It occurred to me as I looked around for something to offer you this week that the two of them might have something to say to each other right now, and to us.

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HOSPITALITY                                                        2023


When you get up in the morning and find sadness
sitting silent in your kitchen, hands in her lap,
last night’s teacup cold beside her on the table,

well, it will be a slower day than you had planned. She will
be in the way. Not meaning to, just being. The simplest thing
to do is take a breath and make her welcome.

So put the kettle on, put bread in the toaster, put out
napkin and plate and jam, familiar morning comforts.
Sadness may not be hungry; even so, make time for breakfast.

Stay gentle in her company, no pointed questions
about how long she plans to stay, just quiet talk,
the day long, of ordinary doings as you do them,

and let her silence answer you. It may be long
before she speaks herself; no answers needed then,
only your listening, breathing in and out with her.

If you find, when night folds round you like a blanket,
that she has lain down in your bed, lie next to her.
There will be room. There may be tears. There will be rest.

When you wake up you may find sadness still beside you,
her cool hand heavy on your chest; or she may
have risen and moved on, for now. The simplest thing

to do is take a breath, put on the kettle,
welcome whatever visitors the day may bring.

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                                                                                                  2021

I keep thinking
about history books and gospels
laying out their stories –- 
That happened, and then This;
and we say Of course, we are not surprised,
we have been told this story before,
we may not know every part of the story
but we know This happened next.

I keep thinking
about the people in the stories
who did not know, when That happened,
that This would follow –- 
who may have hoped for This
or feared it or expected it or not,
who had no way to know.

I keep thinking
about his friends in the gospel story
who had no gospel story to read
on the day he died or on the day after,
who lived for three days
in the That of his dying
as if there were no This,
as if the story were over even though
the days kept trudging by,
full of nothing but That.

I keep thinking
of how they had no way to know
that This would happen next,
especially This –- 
that they would find him next to them alive
in their room or by the lake,
saying Peace, saying Look,
saying Yes I died and dying
tore holes in me that you could drown in but
don’t, because there is more to the story,
saying How’s the fishing?
saying What have you got to eat?

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