Mysterious Object Of A Lucid Verb
I’m scrambling eggs or pumping gas
and they tumble out. From the heart,
if not the tongue. Like a bell. More music
than prayer. Then the careening train
chugs to a stillness and I remember.
For a wisp of time I remember, and all
the white noise of my life—the jangle
of people, traffic, work, of doubt and longing—
morph into a star. I become sky.
Daily this bell, like grace. The words ring
and You’re near. I remember. This breath.
This meal. This day. Thank You.
©Lucy Aron, Nimrod International Journal, Spring/Summer 2004
