Tears for the Road
Poetry
The wind kicked up from the north, causing
the back gate to fling open and slam shut over and over
again. I step out to latch it, and it's cold in the shade and barely
warm in the January sun.
The garage door crawls up the ceiling, and my immediate task is to unload
a washer and dryer we received as a gift from a couple
who both enjoy whiskey and Zen philosophy, true middle wayers.
Finding the grip — as with most tasks in life — is the obstacle
in getting these machines from the truck's bed onto the ground.
While grappling, I notice a hawk perched on
the peak of the A-frame of our house. The nobility
of the raptor stops my activity, and I can’t help
but stay with its patience while simultaneously
honoring its alertness.
I finish the job and lay in the bed of the truck. The
hawk locks eyes with me, and I sense my heartbeat is
being read when my eyes become so blurred I don’t know if they’ll ever
clear themselves again.
The shadow of its wings passes over me, and for a moment — even if it's temporary — I let go of holding back and once again remember what is
possible during this incarnation.
