May 20, 2018

Drove to the studio through the flooded French Broad under the railroad bridge. The water was as high on the Prius as I ever want it to be.

Finally retrieved my paintings–and my paltry yet better-than-nothing check-- from the old Flood Gallery. Took them to Riverview, thinking the River Road to Roberts Street would still be flooded. Also, couldn’t imagine climbing those stairs repeatedly. Met one of my neighbors– Maria, who makes French matting on commission for opulent patrons. Admitted that I had never heard of French matting before.

Pentecost. Put on the red shirt. Looked into the garden, where the Dublin Bays, the Mr Lincolns, the peonies are themselves tongues of flame. Each year to hear the Gospel done in Tongues is thrilling.  Sat in the garden at evening. A thrush called. The grass under my feet was imponderably cool. I was afraid of something and didn’t quite know what.


   Whitsunday



Cardinals find the rain pools under the leaves.
Thrush bells evening from the rhododendron dome.
It is the day of the first red rose,
the bush afire and yet unconsumed.

This is the scarlet Whitsun.
This is me in my red shirt in the darkening garden.
I sat with jaws slack waiting for the Tongues.

I listened for the Galilean and the Cretan
of the crawlers in the grass.
Maybe if I call to the thrush in thrush,
to the rose in the dialects of fire. . . .

I think I knew this.
I think I used this once to get me far enough
into a country where there would be no turning back.

The neighbor’s cat goes plush paw
under the Dublin Bays, the Mr. Lincolns.
The one voice in my mouth, unchanged through all.
Me and my red shirt in the darkening garden