A Reverie Befell Me, Walking Across the Courtyard
I push the door open. I don’t know what the
weather will be when I do so:
Cool rushing wafts of glorious lake air
what? I idly wonder.
Yet I go outside anyway. I push the door
and step onto the melting slushy snow.
Yes, it’s rain, a steady, light spatter on my
I feel the glory of the rain on my skin,
final and ephemeral splendor of the spatter.
The snow beneath my feet is gray, packed.
Feet have crossed here, treading
on the miraculous individuality of the flakes.
Their life is at an end.
Too long they’ve lingered on; their brothers
murdering, amalgamating, consolidating.
The snow from this morning is almost gone.
I leave the snow behind.
Already the light from the building behind me is
a distant memory of civilization and order. I walk
staring dully at my feet squishing and plashing
treading down the old dead grass of last fall
which just now sees the light of day after a winter of discontent.
the glorious rain
the mystic rain
it spatters on my glasses and clogs my vision
the light from the parking lot reflects
throwing tiny spots of faint wavering white light into my retinas.
I pass a tree. A young tree
its branches red and overconfident with the hint
hint of new growth
hint of new leaf
hint of new life
a maple, I think.
The tree is lit; a spotlight shines through its branches in mockery of its nakedness.
The spotlight bleeds a film of white light into the corner of my eye:
I am blinded
and yet I can see
I once was lost, but now am found: was blind, but now I see.
Now I notice more spotlights
dotting the sodden courtyard
mocking in chorus the vulnerability of the young maples
The rain awakes me from my trance
and I walk on, stumbling a bit in the gravel.
More snow up ahead, but my path won’t cross it.
Tenacious it is, and touching; will Old Woman Winter never relinquish her grip?
it tugs at my heartstrings.
I feel the touch of the Divine
but it is beyond my ken.
What is He doing? What am I feeling?
Ah, that I had the tongue of Homer or the wit of Chaucer
then I’d understand this.
it’s not merely precipitation
the crass meteorologist’s euphemism
it’s something higher
like a chorus concluding their song
or the breathtaking hideous beauty of the ice
jostling and crunching in-shore on
the cold grasp and gasp as you lose your balance ice-skating
the silent scream as, hiking, you startle a placid doe
it’s the Joy of Lewis.
I do not preach
I do not pry
I merely say
Tonight, a reverie befell me, walking across the courtyard.
Tonight, I felt the touch of God.