A Poem by Jane Kenyon

Because it is Election Day. And because in my family we are still waiting, midwives to sorrow. Jane Kenyon herself, died too young, but left behind shreds of beauty and we find this here:

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the bar, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to it sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to the air in the lung,
let evening come.

Let it come as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Barn at Dusk, Kathy Los-Rathburn

The Privacy of Loss

Sometimes I wonder if there are any private processes anymore. What was innovative in art in the twentieth-century included the then-radical framing of things that were private or controversial or even just mundane. It all gave way to 'concept art' in some ways: the idea that if we saw something in a specialized context we might pay it more mind and also that it might enrich our minds, stoke our imaginations as well.

My disquisition ends here. I'm no art historian. And as a reader of poetry, I'm mighty biased. I grew up on Christina Rosetti and a lot of Lutheran hymns. I like the phyllo leaves of words buttered with rhymes. A good poem or a minor-key hymn is a lot like a good baklava or a particularly well-made spanakopita: lots of layers, crunchiness melding with the either sweet or savory filling and that spice or herb or vague hint on the tongue you can't quite name, yet know.

By now I'm used to there being nothing much that's private.We text, Tweet, share on FB, send emails. "Share my pain, share my joy, share my utter banal existence" seem to be our marching orders. And for the most part, I get it. I accept it. And at our best we're organizing flash mobs. At our worst, insurrections.

Fort Hill, Eastham, Cape Cod, Brendan Ben Feeney

That's why death is both different and daunting.

A close relative of mine is dying. And all that matters in these days of uncertainty is that there is ample silence and ample peace so that the clutter of words doesn't obscure the truth. We live in numbered days. If it's true the gods have denied us immortality but granted us human affection, then our time is best spent in holding on to each other--at least for now. Until our imaginations can jump the gap once more between what is and what our wishing says is so.

Not a Happy Poem About More than a Hurricane

Boone County Thunderstorm by Kyle Spradley

Waiting for the Storm

Instead of immortality, the gods gave us human affection.

                                                                          --Eugene Mirabelli

We are all waiting for the storm and there’s always a storm.
There’s always the quiet that comes before the storm and the quiet
that comes after, disaster
averted or limply borne.
We do not bear disaster bravely, even if acts of bravery
show our mettle; still we are limp before circumstance,
powerless as downed wires sheared through.
We are always waiting for the storm.
It bruits in the distance, foreboding nimbus
shadowing our hours, sheltering fears,
sapping our strength to power its own.

And we wait. Our births, deaths,
--separate storms. But there are always others
with their births, deaths and intricate
anguishes filtering through decades—
just a few decades--of mortal terror time and again.
We wait. We give aid.
And just as greedily take,
seeking shelter in the lean-to of human affection,
the human heart not meant to last a hundred years,
but strong enough to break and mend, break and mend,
over and over, an organ that grieves, receives, relieves,
and cleaves until it can beat no more,
silenced, once and for all.

We are all waiting for the storm and there is always a storm.
The calm in the living room—gold light from the mica shade,
the clay bowl’s milky glaze—collides with the forecast
of the front headed toward us. It’s off in the distance
till the hours bear it near, hapless and dangerous,
these clouds full of woe. What do they know
of mercy or blessings? That’s left to us, all we can do
is bring our dying bodies close and closer,
shoulder-to-shoulder--what's left?--and weather the storm.