Mean

3:58 a.m.

My bladder didn’t alarm me.

Thoughts pulled me out of bed

and I lifted the toilet seat anyway.

I then fumbled in the dark

and plucked a book off the shelf.

 

Wendell Berry started poeming me.

 

Old man thoughts strung

to the background hum of the fridge

and a faint ticking of the clock.

 

Wendell thinking in lines

and subtle turns of phrase.

Language was handled over and again

like a threshing toss in the wind.

 

He said what he meant

and meant what he said

like one grain of wheat.

 

“I know that I have life

only insofar as I have love.

 

I have no love

except it come from Thee.

 

Help me, please, to carry

this candle against the wind.”

 

How I long to mean like that.

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