Monday, June 11, 2012

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.

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