Missing

We're still waiting,
less radiant, less sure.
It grows dark. We light candles.

Cousins, strange in serious suits,
fold their hands on their laps
and sing old, familiar songs.

Sleep
Sleep
the grass is growing
and a single bird tests the air
reminding us today is all there is.

Sleep
Sleep
The grass is growing
and the well's not deep enough
to drown the moon.

Light condenses
Doors swing open
but the guest is
not yet visible.

The dream still in our mouths,
we drift to a room where the thin
gruel of early morning light
falls on a scarred table top
and a white plate

with its burden of black bread.
Now we keep very still
and wait for the missing one
to come again and share
this heavy loaf of silence.


 

© Ruth Daigon