Often I forget

Today I ponder what I wrote yesterday and the day before.  And the day before that.  Most often what I write has to do with what catches my attention in the morning.  Simply that. I wonder about returning to preach occasionally, and where and when and how that would be.  I remember my seminary preaching professor who declared: Every sermon is not a sonnet.  My sermons have never been sonnets.  Neither are my poems.  With the exception of the haiku, and an occasional villanelle, I write freely and shortly. Sermons too.  

Often I forget

What I wrote yesterday.

Once it is released

Into the world,

It becomes part of the whole.

It becomes part of the mosaic,

Or perhaps

It is grout.

No telling where

It will end up;

No telling

If it will be stone

Or binder

Or maybe

A place holder

To be discarded

When something better
Comes along.

Grout with sand

Today the upstairs bathroom is being grouted with two different kinds of grout.  Who knew there were so many kinds?  I remember my parishioner from years ago who regaled me with stories of all the different kinds of paint and coatings required for bridges.  Why does it surprise me that grout is as varied?  

My love has gone to the tile store.

It seems the tile guy

Needs more grout,

Grout with sand

For the floor.

Gray.

It seems

There are almost

As many kinds and colors

Of grout

As stars in the sky

Pebbles on the beach,

Whichever metaphor

For abundance

We choose.

Yesterday the acupuncture lady

Told me

She is grout too.

She connects people

In different ways

Than I do.

I am grout.

Perhaps even grout with sand.

I have company

Grout

Sometimes I have the fantasy that I will find the spotlight.  Usually that fantasy doesn*t last very long.  I am called to serve on the edges, to caulk pieces together.  I am grout:  truly a noble calling. Grout does not fit a marketing niche.

The tile guy

Is halfway through the project.

His grout

Is immaculate.

Last night I dreamed myself

At a clergy convention.

I watched everything,

Observed the son of a

Loquacious colleague

Pontificate before the masses

Assembled.

My colleague beamed

A father*s pride.

His brother asked question after question.

When I looked out

On the assembly

People were leaving right and left.

They*re not listening

I said

Look, they*re leaving!

I said.

My colleague continued to beam

A father*s pride.

Last night I dreamed

A picture being taken

Of the whole Diocese

On stage.

I was under the risers

With a colleague I knew

Had to be in the picture.

I raised her up on my shoulders

So she would appear in the picture

In the middle

Of the back row.

When I woke up

I realized

I am grout:

The necessary caulking

Between the tiles,

Or perhaps the leading
on a stained glass window.

I am not immaculate

Like the tile guy*s grout

Or even Mary.

Still: I am grout.

I make necessary commentary.

Sometimes I lift people on my shoulders

So they can be in the picture.