A Ragged Place
Prayer, says Mary Oliver, doesn’t have to be akin to “the blue Iris.”
It could be something very ordinary ”like weeds in a vacant lot.”
We walked a vacant lot this week,
Buddy and I,
on a blustering, bone chilling January day.
It was a ragged place
where once apartments stood and
our Deb and her newly wed Craig lived
the first year of their marriage.
Czar found them one night, sniffed them
from a mile away,
and sauntered down the road
to paw at their door about three a.m.
Now it is that vacant lot, crumbled,
only discolored pieces of concrete
set in hard ground,
some wizened stalks
leaning into the wind,
sticking out of holes
like burned out candles
in a flattened wedding cake.
It will be vacant, vagrant we might say,
until some fine new place
will rise up.
But for me it is not truly vacant.
The voices of a bride,
a groom, a dog,
will always call out
when I walk by.
Leighton Ford, January 2016