by Chris Reed
*
The deepening fall stalls my step, invites a seasonal sabbath, a slowing of time, luring me to witness the dying world, the retreat of light, warmth, color, a trail of endings, this yearly dress rehearsal. Here is the world. Leaves, red-rimmed, rustle silently like yesterday’s still photos from Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, blood-tinged. The deck is wet from recent rain, as water runs out in war-torn lands, runs out for all, as rivers and aquifers shrink, while torrents wash cities into the sea. A rest. A time away from politics, like leaving the red-faced relatives, arguing in the sunroom, laced with whisky fumes, surrounded by blue-blossomed African violets. I’d sneak into the kitchen filled with the smells and warmth of my grandmother’s baking bread as she hugged me and nodded, a knowing smile on her face. Was it in Coetzee, I read that politics is just a form we use for the hate and frustration already there? Was it in Miller, I read that when as children, love is denied, politics and how we treat our own children, are where we fine-tune our cruelty? The leaves turn paler, start to yellow, the sky, a cleaner blue after the rains. Sabbath is about sitting with gratitude, sitting with possibilities, sitting with some kind of god, some kind of love. I wait.
*
Author’s Note: The seed for this poem was this week's New York Times story about the Amazon River.
*
Chris Reed is a retired Unitarian minister. Her poems have recently been published in River Heron Review, The NewVerse News, and US1 Worksheets, among other journals.
The editor apologizes for the earlier misspelling of the title.