The Ship From Orion, Laden With Air

He slips to the porch, my Father, dragging his foot. Loyal appendage, companion of journeys of leap and crawl, follows now in puzzlement, its signals crossed. Smiling from rail of white trawler, prow pointed toward great fish to be snared in deep waters, a 1939 sepia photo reveals a man of grace and humor abroad in the world. --Hannibel, in his early years, perhaps, before the elephants, before the Alps, grasping the sun-struck rail, leaning into the wind, grinning down his future. His fish net is too broad now for minnow of language. Words slip through, falling into the mouth of shark, leaving echoes without sense in their wake. Bible deep are his stunned  eyes as he watches the road, fathoming, fathoming flutter of bird wing, flicker of light, waiting for yesterday to dock on the lawn. Evolution has shaped The Word into sea snail tight to the moment. Inland, he breathes no long thoughts, nor furthers Christianity by being like HIM. He can mother me no longer.  The cord is cut.  The basilisk of age has eaten him, neuron by synapse, a wind-torn statue of flesh, forgotten on Mars. From this paint-peeled rail far inland, steady on its sea of late summer grass, his non-inquisitive Presence burns through the fog between us, so patiently waiting for the ship from Orion, laden with harvest, air that is good. Rain, rich with the scent of earth, now falls on us, a heavenly benediction.  Black pavement beyond gleams under leaf light, and he turns to me, and smiles the old, electric smile, laden with secret (for he and I, alone). I am not grounded.  My cell walls leap into star shapes, pulsing, waiting with him there for yesterday dragging our Soul. Written December 30th, 2001 © on Dec 30 2001 05:30 AM PST, Carole Dudley   0 • 20 • 8