grasping tranquility

husband put arm around wife, others in suits followed suit, mints were pulled and passed and the white-bearded man spoke of praise in the mouths of babes, of psalm eight which i'd read that morning and spirit quieted sudden, in the pew with the dutch ...




and the man with the thick voice and the old hair shared wise of ecclesiastes, next, and the meaningless of toil, and how one hand grasping tranquility is better than two gripping tools for work done as unto man is vain, and only the Lord can build a house...



and i thought of the colors, of tomatoes and apples and cucumbers, of fuzzy-faced peaches and twist-tie zucchinis and how i'd baked for hours only to ruin, and how i'd wept for minutes into the too-moist-pans and wished for time spent other, for hours gone-wasted to be returned, and then i'd tried to find reason





for that wet afternoon, and i'd learned it in his face, the little boy who sat one foot in sink, hand holding vegetables, head bent like my father's and i realized





as the dutch man told now of his wife and their marriage, relationships... where two or more are gathered... the ties cannot be broken, and this,








is meaning.
















not time. not toil. not round loaves-perfect. not check-lists or laundry folded or carpets clean. him. me. us. boy.







and the couple in front, folded inside each other's arms. the families passing mints. these, matter.







and for these, i give thanks.