White tuxedo

There are experiences, stories in my life, which seem to come in groups, as if there is something cataloging and categorizing them.  I used to think some were possible books, like the two white tuxedo stories, or the three rose-breasted grosbeak sightings, or even the multitudinous hawks.  Now I think they are stories to remain part of the warp and weft of my life, God-stories which may illustrate something for me or perhaps someone else, if it seems right, and if I can share it loosely enough.  They are not books.

Years ago

I was going to write a book

About white tuxedoes,

Red cummerbunds,

But I only had two stories

That fit.

Two chapters don*t make

A book.

Years later

I was going to write a book

About the times I experienced

A rose-breasted grosbeak.

Only three stories there.

Again

Three chapters

Don*t make a book.

Now the stories

Are woven

Into the fabric of my life.

They resonate like the ongoing thrill

Of the singing bowl,

Its rim circled again

And again.

Now

I write particular pamphlets

To advertise

What I have to offer

As a counselor.

I have a singing bowl full

Of offering:

White tuxedoes,

Red cummerbunds;

Rose-breasted grosbeaks; and oh yes,

There are still hawks

Everywhere.

I have a warehouse

Of hawks

To offer.