These three benches

These three benches

at the end of the pier

often host and hold

tongues on fire

expelling and resting

and huge ears

open and receiving

fire and smoke

mist and steam

Take it all in

keep space and stasis

out in the middle of the water

where the ripples meet the cormorants

The fishing poles dangle and drag

over the surface like gnats hovering

waiting, not so patiently

with no tongue or ear

just buzz and hum

twitching with wind

These benches carry on resolute

Waiting and wondering

when it will be their turn

to be flame received

by the largest listening

that ever graced the surface of the deep

I am not sure I have a favorite bench

The first one watches the cormorants

Standing on the posts of a dock long gone

All in a line, they watch the east

their pointed beaks slightly aloof

cooing and squealing at the wind

or maybe the gulls

crowing the whipped water

and with one rush

the flurry of wings

whooshing the flock a flight

in a symmetry so wondrous

it could never be taught

Stay close behind me

in the beat of my flapping wings

Keep my corner tight

and steady my soaring sky

At the third bench

On the first dark day

Watching the early night

Greeted by flickering lights

on all sides of the lake

except for this one

The benches sit dark

illumined only by the few

who come to bear witness

to the first early dawn of darkness

adjusting their eyes to the new reality

So that sleepless, we may be

in the coming of months

of early rest, of balm

of firelight and candlelight

of depression and purposelessness

of intermittence and the Grace of the in between.

We wait and receive

Walking to the benches to witness

its coming, as sure as the water flows

as calm as stillness is anxious.

Night is on the water

Night is here

We are here

All is calm on the bench.