A surprise in the long green meadow
we had come, tired of climbing, out of
the woods,
down upon, and slumped right down on
the grass –
so we were already rested
before we saw it, glistening new oakwood waiting for us
to sit, as we did
wanting to honor its workmanlike beauty
and thoughtfulness,
wondering what the benchmaker
wanted us to see.
It turned our backs on the lights of
the meadow
so perhaps he wanted us to look down
into scrub oaks, conifers, sprawling manzanita,
the thickening shade, the path
downward,
thought of us resting, not staying.
But perhaps he had no opinion about
what we would see –
wouldn’t envisage so much as a lizard –
as he left no plaque about whom to
thank.
Perhaps he was thinking only of the oak
and bringing it back sturdy and
polished
to stand where it fell in the winter
winds,
a made thing among unfinished things.
Perhaps he was thinking about how loss
trims and hones us
before we disappear altogether
or perhaps he had thought enough about
that
to last a lifetime. What he made
will last a while,
something to look for next time
Patrick Daly
.