Heat
of Jacksonville summer
had not yet encroached on
the arriving Sunday dawn
under the huge tree
that supported me
on a splintery wooden swing.
As I sat
without moving
to reflect on memories
better forgotten,
a nearby mockingbird
was uncharacteristically quiet
as a squirrel sat silently
in the tree branches above me.
The grass stood straight,
eaves hung stiffly
and the only sign of life
was a stalking green lizard
looking for breakfast.
Across
the road
a young girl emerged from
a ramshackle home
posted in foreclosure
and squatted on a
patio of dead weeds
and dried mud.
She examined a plastic flute
in a bag brought along,
put it to her lips,
and began to play softly
as if she wanted
no one to hear.
The
haunting elegance of
"Amazing Grace" floated
poignantly and reverently
through the neighborhood
and rose into the sky
like a holy offering
of prayers unspoken.
I closed
my eyes
and remembered the
long-ignored lessons
taught by my decades-gone mother.
And in the Sunday morning stillness
I suddenly felt the need to repent.
Copyright
©2010 Keith Gery
|