|Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin
Homeward bound today, I drove beneath
a paragraph or so of geese, in the process
of writing themselves across the cumulus:
just straggling letters upon a blank screen.
As much as I could, and still drive, I read
the happy ending: prodigals that return,
our beloved who come back and forgive,
more Mays and Junes than we deserve.
A woman, a stranger, beside the Interstate,
also looked up; I knew, watching her eyes,
that she could read. I didn't go too fast
to see that she liked what she interpreted.
It has been written of me that I am
a treasure in a clay pot, and tonight
this clay pot overflows with love for such
legible geese, and a woman by the road.