Happy are those who consider the poor; …they are called happy in the land. (Psalm 41)
I’m still thinking about the “Poetry Night” last Friday. And now I recall this journal entry from a morning in March:
Kitty-corner from my morning lookout sits a commissioned inspiration. The artwork looks like giant panpipes. The piece has stood there, according to my memory, for over two years. I have never heard the pipes make a sound even on the days when you have to lean into a wind as you cross 109th.
But upon closer inspection I see that every pipe has a diagonal opening cut close to its top, making the pipes look more like very large penny-whistles. So unless by some meteorological anomaly the wind bears down from above with gale-speed, these poor vertical pipes will remain mute. As art, interesting to some, curious to others, and an abstraction to the rest.
Such is the lot of the first-nations man I now see crossing Jasper. He’s wearing a donated varsity jacket brown with age and blue jeans shiny with street-silt. He walks by using the weight and momentum of his torso to throw each leg out in front of him by turns. The limbs don’t seem to belong to him. People pass by. He’s interesting to some, curious to others, and an abstraction to the rest.
Happy are those who consider the poor…
