Today I’m sharing a poem by a dear friend and poet. She is more introspective and cautious than I am, less boisterous and loud. But dear nonetheless. I hope you enjoy her words.
It Is Time for Walking
by Kathleen P. Bufford
Silent, we descend the 18 steps—1 of finished wood;
17, rough stone. A gravel of disagreement, spatted,
with flecks of disrespect irritates the space between us.
If added to and added to, and over time cemented,
potential boulders, I suppose.
A mere two feet of disconnection
seems 9 dead-sea miles of separation.
“Alpha,” hisses Beta, “Do Not Tell Me What I Think!”
And Beta stalks a foot, two feet, an argument ahead.
Alpha long-legs answers, and assumes the lead, but
dog determines the deciding stride, halts to sniff
compost between early shoots of spring.
Silenced by the garden sight, we point and nod, first one, and then the other,
pointing to audaciously early rosebuds that defy the frozen season.
Further, on the ascent of this hill that we walk nightly, I
note our matching, rising gaze. Again, silent fingers point.
Double-sized, it seems, the moon draws our eyes, dazzles.
We stop again, deep breathing, and embracing from the breadth and depth
of moon, of noted planets, of high, sparse clouds, and starry constellations,
and from the cultivated yards beside us, this scent and sense: God is in this world,
these heavens, awe-striking, hovering, lover-ing, holding, wind-
dancing, displaying harmonies we have not yet heard or seen,
and in the kingdom here, is He not still creating?
More deeply inhaling, we two take in this grace, forget to spat.
Shamed a bit, I stoop to bag the poop that husband,
humbled, stoops to find, and find, and find again.
Reverenced by The Lover and His kingdom, we continue, minus disrespect,
not so much needing to resolve just now
… what was that gravel of disagreement?
Perhaps in time the gentle yin and yang surrounding it will form
more lovely layers—as clusters of patience or endurance;
Continuing around and back down our hill, holding hands, we
chat the weather, then savor silence.
Harmonized, up 17 rough and 1 smooth step we walk in often-practiced habit,
matching foot-falls as in choreographed procession.
Stop to smile at the top.
Triumphant once again over minor irritation, we unlock and enter Home,
inhale and embrace there the depth and breadth, the connectedness of us
and others who surround in snapshots, quilts, wool throw, paintings, and
in calligraphied expressions.
We care for the dog, complete the chores that end this day,
ascend a dozen quieter steps, softer, yes, but steep.
Then, having been awed, gentled, held, we sleep.