Christ wrote in the sand, where he stooped,
beside the “adulteress”, who trembled,
facing her imminent demise by stones,
as prescribed by the executives of religion.
And when, as reported, Christ said, while writing,
“Whoever is without sin, cast the first stone,”
there was a pause; we looked at each other,
our blood still high, but who, here,
would cast that guiltless stone?
We waited, too long, and the frenzied lust
of our righteousness dissipated like steam.
None of us could look at the face of the woman,
who had turned toward Christ,
or look at each other; only at the hunched figure
of the man who had spoken, who then went on writing.
Our hands hung down, weighted by rocks.
One dropped his stones, and limped away,
then another, and another. Christ kept on writing
in the dirt, verse that no one recorded,
in other words, the perfect poem,
the poem that came without effort,
made some humanity happen,
then was erased,
to make way for the next.

She walks often, almost daily, takes a well-known path
through an open park, then a tree-lined street back to her home.
She walks through every season; she greets their temperaments.

She is attentive to what comes as she walks: the greens and blues,
the blades and blossoms, rising, opening, closing, disappearing,
making every walk, despite its regular route, unique.

She returns to her many commitments, she has family, and friends.
Her relationships are bread and wine to her. She gives of herself, readily,
but like the broad banks of a quiet river, she keeps good boundaries.

She pays attention to her appearance, her body, her bearing,
but not much, is she guided by the conventions of Vogue, or standards
offered by Glamour. She neither welcomes nor resists, aging.

She is aware and despairs the devolution in the social fabric;
but is not taken in by partisan resentments and polarizing slogans;
she has chosen to live in the muddy centre, with openness and kindness.

She has tasks and projects, equal to her abilities, and pursues
one or two that move her beyond what she accepts about herself.
She is willing to fail, but hopes to be surprised.

Her annoyances do not eclipse her ability to laugh, often as not, at herself.
She has worries, certainly, and a few fears. She knows of sorrow’s paralysis;
she has her own parade of losses. Mostly, is she settled about her own mortality.

Time has reshaped her faith: more childlike, not preoccupied by concepts,
nor grasping for containers, or conclusions; but faithful to a form of mystery
that calls her inward, then outward, to the sublime mess of humanity.

She is not a stranger to standing on a shore in hushed wonder,
holding an oyster shell, running her fingers over its polished interior,
watching its mauves and silvers, deepen, then lighten, under a layered sky.

She moves more easily now, with an abiding belief in life, and has come
to a confident hope in the transforming power of a day well lived.
She does not aim for bliss, is happy with times of contentment.

Still, sometimes she almost cries out, astonished, by just being here,
and the real possibility she might not have been.
She has no answer for this, just a deepening sense of gratitude.

More and more she finds solace in the realness of what is around her,
or rather, she has come to trust in the light that shines
through all things of this earth.

Dented, squat, aluminum cylinder, with a flat handle
the length of a child’s forearm. It hangs on a nail
beside a five-gallon crock of well water that sits on a shelf
just inside a fly-stippled screen door. A sweaty pack of kids,
on break from hide-and-seek, are lined up in the fading heat
of a July evening, and the water, cool and clear, is of nectar.

I feel it, still, some 60 years later, this love, for my cousins,
for that farm, not far from the Whitesand River dam, ripe
with pickerel, for the horse-drawn cutter and rake, resting
in calf-high quackgrass, across from the car bodies, rusting,
among a cluster of poplars, down from the shop that held
the forge and the bellows and horseshoes; and in the yard,
the smell of cattle and pasture, cut hay, and cow manure;
and chickens scattering over purslane and pineapple weed,
tame geese honking and shitting beside the drying slough,
the choirs of crickets coming on in the rose-grey gloaming,
and the drained dipper in my hand, the slight tin aftertaste,
the water, spilling down my throat, a deep fresh coolness,
rinsing, radiating through my ribs to the ends of my limbs,
my whole skinny body, like a small piston of joy.

We formed a circle around a small fire,
we sat cross-legged, listening to the lake,
someone had a guitar, someone passed out candles,
we sang softly, our faces glowing, our eyes gleaming,
sparks leapt from each to each,
we held hands, we hugged,
we gave our lives to Jesus,
our eyes wet and heavenward,
our bodies alive with desire,
like drawn bows trembling,
plotting and promising impossible reunions.

When the campfire went out and the morning came
and we waited for the bus to take us
home, we were solemn,
and then made fun.

Deeper than guilt or embarrassment
was the heart’s new intelligence.

That beneath our touches and embraces,
our imperfect intentions,
we yearn for two worlds:
to fall headlong into self-obliterating love,
to grasp the hand of just one companion, and be received.