Reaper
by: Billy Collins
As I drove north along a country road
on a bright spring morning
I caught the look of a man on the roadside
who was carrying an enormous scythe on his shoulder.
He was not wearing a long black cloak
with a hood to conceal his skull--
rather a torn white tee shirt
and a pair of loose khaki trousers.
But still, as I flew past him,
he turned and met my glance
as if I had an appointment in Samarra,
not just the usual lunch at the Raccoon Lodge.
There was no sign I could give him
in that instant--no casual wave,
or thumbs-up, no two-fingered V
that would ease a jolt of fear
whose voltage ran from my ankles
to my scalp--just the glimpse,
the split-second lock of the pupils
like catching the eye of a stranger on a passing train.
And there was nothing to do
but keep driving, turn off the radio,
and notice how white the houses were,
how red the barns, and green the sloping fields.
Most people have these mini near-death experiences occasionally. It may be as simple as seeing some guy carrying a scythe on his shoulder. Or driving by a cemetery. Or finding a dead sparrow in the backyard.
Suddenly, a spike of ice hits your spine, and you're walking hand-in-hand with mortality for a few moments. Time becomes as present as a popsicle on a hot July afternoon, sweetly fleeting and soon forgotten. Yet, the world shifts, becomes more vibrant and precious for a little while.
This morning, I wrote with one of my best poet friends. We sat on the roof of the library and scribbled in our journals, and, as seagulls complained overhead and Lake Superior marched iron waves to its shores, poetry was born.
It was a blessing, and I felt blessed. Not too many people can start their days with birds and words and water. But, because I'd just read Collins' poem, I was aware of the presence of grace moving around and through me.
In the evening, another blessing--an outdoor concert by a wonderful group of musicians. They set up their equipment and filled the air with a joyful noise. And this was grace at work, too.
Here's one of the poems Saint Marty wrote this morning . . .
Traffic Jam
by: Martin Achatz
I got stuck in a slow crawl
of cars and trucks and motorcycles,
annoyed at the inconvenience
of pace, other drivers trying
to snake in and out of lanes
to arrive 15 seconds sooner
than me at the next dead stop.
I was with a writer friend
who was in no hurry, embraced
the humanness of the situation,
this long line of souls inching
inching inching toward some
unseen obstacle, a toll we had
to pass in order to speed back
into our daily lives. Around a bend,
we came to the accident, jackknifed
semi, its tire shredded on the rim,
crushed pickup with EMTs
crowded around a stretcher. We
glided by like a gondola in Venice,
took in the tragedy, and suddenly
I wasn't all that anxious to arrive.
Instead, I turned up the radio
a little, asked my friend about
her pet donkeys, enjoyed the July
sun streaming through the windshield.
❤️
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