My Friend's Father Has Passed Away
For Maria
Lately, at the Shaker Village in New Gloucester
Maine, the way looking ahead was looking back
like how a white door on the clapboard house
was off plumb how the sunk granite step left
one foot heavier in the rise up how the twelve
panes of glass grasped what was in back
of me: all red/black barn and blue/white
sky and the defying of it all the cumulus
rolling roiling and back to the rub in the middle
of the step the work of all those going
into prayer all those courting God touching
their lips to the lintel before they clear
the threshold completely a warm pain
in their pocket: a newly picked
from the tree beside the meeting house
a pair of pears heating their palm and their hip yes
lately at Shaker Village in New Gloucester
Maine, even the seeds of all that is unseen
are sown.
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