Poem: A Long Arrival Home
A Long Arrival Home
Every week I preach a sermon
But only fifteen people come to hear;
Verse after verse, line after line
A thousand written pages remain
Unread beneath the dust;
Year after year my soul
Which have touched only the ears
Of spiders and kitchen mice.
Travelling to the city
Would there not be more companions here
To keep my life’s work
From obscurity and rust?
A long arrival home, and lightning
Plays over the dark hills
Where there is nothing but the evening rain
Where the insects’ August chant
Seems a sermon well beyond
A poem outstripping my skill; a note too resplendent
O happy limitation!
O glory beyond my scope!
O bubble by inadequacy bust!
To be reminded: all ashes
To be reminded
All dust to dust!