Impermanence —Richard Jones
Three painters painting a cottage across the street
climb down ladders and clean their brushes,
then sit together on the grass in the cool shade
and eat their lunch in the quiet August noon.
The postman parks his white Jeep on the corner,
swings open the door, pours coffee from a thermos,
unwraps a sandwich he eats slowly, then sits
for twenty minutes doing nothing. Next door,
the music teacher helps a boy carry a cello
down the steep front steps to a waiting car,
then absentmindedly bends to pick a few weeds
from a parched garden that is mostly weeds.
Standing under a tall spruce clearing my head
of ten thousand disappointed desires and dreams,
I think of nothing but the holy things here today—
painters, cello, ladders, the mailman’s leather pouch,
roof tops, weeds, a boy with his mother driving away,
and the small white cottage that tomorrow will be red.