Walking and Thinking

I believe in watching time pass
through the lighted window
of grace.  There was a moment


today when stained glass
mandalas made more sense
than any linear pattern,


so I went inside, out
of the straight-pouring rain,
to contemplate my loneliness


closer to God.  Today
was a day I wished I could paint;
pale trees through a mist


of snowflake rain, alighting
on face and hair and arms
with such goodness


that being sheltered from it
would be insulting a higher
power.  I walked.  Trees


like old Norse gods,
spreading out their strength
before the inevitable dying-time,


became my companions,
and I thought about sitting
underneath, till an old man


in a jazz reverie
sat too, and I left him
to his remembrance.


It was a fine day to walk,
explore, imagine, dream,
do all of those shapely


awkward calculations
of the future like we used
to when we were kids.


I thought about you, about
life, about London, about French,
about omelettes and crosswords


and finding trails where there
were no trails anymore.  I thought
about writing and recollection,


about stories, about disease,
about struggle, and money,
and children, and fireplaces.


I thought about Christmas,
and music, and laughter,
and I thought about Paris


and I thought about you.
The day was wet with these
thoughts, spattering


the ground around me.
Where the huge mulch lay,
thoughts coagulated


and rose in steam heat
back to their origins
in the clouds.