Vespers

Here, there are no rituals...

Photo by Zack Silver on Unsplash

Vespers

a new light
     filters
        through branches
  
I remember
     other light, 
          dust-filled,
      falling on my 
            folded hands

my knees know 
     the stone 
         and soil 
     differently:
          one is 
      memory,
the other, 
       presence

their impressions 
     both linger 
        in my skin

a hawk calls 
     from the hollow
          of a lightning-struck oak.

absence makes room
     for unexpected 
         voices.

I stood when told,
     sat when expected
         spoke prescribed words
 
          here,
     there are no rituals

moss softens the fallen column
     where I rest 
           my knees, 
     feeling a
pulse beneath surface—
     mine
        and something older

the words I was taught
      never fit
         my tongue properly

this silence 
     doesn't demand
          to be filled with
               borrowed language

between 
weathered	 stones
      wildflowers find 
unlikely homes
      their petals, 
           like cool brass 

water shapes stone 
      over centuries
          slowly as doubt
       reshapes conviction
 and without apology

I still catch myself
     looking upward for answers
but 
     answers
           arrive sideways like 
     snow
            driven by wind or
      dandelion cotton through
          the hallowed green sanctuary 
               of a meadow

a doe crosses
      with a grace I recognize
          but can't name
 
     my body remembers

twilight deepens around me–
           my blue shadow mixes 
     with tree shadows
	
the boundary between 
     tradition
          and discovery
               blurs

deity stirs like
      light through
          this cathedral of living wood
       and I breathe its name 
               without speaking

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Sean Downing, poet, musician, teaches high school English and Theater Arts in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. He can often be found in his woodshop, coaxing music from odd scraps of junk, or haunting the trout streams around southwest Colorado. If you see him, don't tell anyone: they're probably looking to get an honest day's work out of him.

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