Closer to Bafflement

Geese pass. And Easter makes a new demand: face the interior Thomas and love him with all your heart. Thus the many imperfections arise, between baking bread and watering horses, between walks at odd hours and sleeping on the couch, between sorrows that are closer to bafflement than any actual loss. Rain dries on the quiet stretch of Main Street faced by the old parsonage, mottled clouds hanging heavy and low. If I knew you once, I no longer make that assertion, and in my ignorance and humility something is born that doesn't insist on sole prerogatives. The angel who is quietest in me, who with me navigates the inner and outer throngs, bears the weight of my attention in a way the old ones said was "graceful." To be anchored is to stay in one place yet everybody knows that all the water at once is the lake, not this or that portion, nor this or that taste. I press my tongue to the moss of the front yard maple - taste earth and something sweet but faint - then kiss it gently, both thrilled and embarrassed. The world goes on in gods who come and go. Dawn, Palm Sunday. This loneliness - this trouble - no woman or religion can soothe.