IN THE AWAITING PLACE

I sit with doors and windows open wide

And the world passes through my home

On the way to somewhere else.

Behind they leave bits of themselves,

Or the sloughed off remnants

Of where they’ve traveled:

Wet footprints, dried leaves,

Sand and new mown grass,

The soft warmth of summer breezes,

The salty embers of blood and of tears,

A photograph, a scrap of cloth—

Echoes of the sound of their brief time

Within this awaiting space.

Hardly anyone of the passing throng

Returns to repair the damage

Left by the turbulence of their invading

And abandoning this place.

Seldom does anyone stop awhile

To share with me

The disquiet of my hours.

Rare, indeed, the one who asks to see beyond

The closed doors within, to glimpse

The secreted thoughts held apart, unseen,

Undreamed of by the crowd passing through.

I sit in this place

With doors and windows open wide,

Unable to shut outside

What I have yet to know

And wish I could not see,

Awaiting the moments

When the seeing is sweet

And the feeling is warm,

When the heart is quiet

And the knowing is peace.