by Abraham dela Torre
The shortest notice did not make one bit
of difference. It was received, returned
and reconciled with thoughts and distances
waylaid by other roads as one traversed
and talked. And walked the narrow and the straight
without a care for luggage that exceed
the expectations one sheds to proceed
to peace. The lady is a welcome guest,
her coming not an accident because
the good and bad that meet us is a choice
we deign to doff or greet with open arms
depending on what our heart dictates.
And also opportune is that the month
is right for many reasons; one is that
her name is borne by juggled circumstance
within a celebrator’s moniker,
my wife’s. Not that the rosary sits at
a place less prominent than my own mark
of Christendom. O Lord, what sweet delights
You let the Holy Spirit rain on us.
With such an overflow there is no speech
commensurate to utter kindred grace
of praise, thanksgiving and forgotten grief
a crown to humble one’s excess no less.
The saucer I drink from reminds that sad
occasions are but instances from God
that nothing can be so tall as a taunt
if our faithfulness recalls its fault.