Visitation

(for P.G.)

I think you could

single handedly

keep the world spinning

in its place.

So full of God

are you

that you contain 

every room

you enter.

The evidence of your love

is everywhere;

everything knows 

you are here.

This morning after

your visit,

I rose early

to find myself

crying on the couch,

a tremulous quiet

still held onto you,

as if the unadorned dawn

had memorized 

your plaintive perfume.

I sensed my own past 

was ahead of me

while the cat lay cleaning

her paws with perfect

self regard, her

quotidian gesture

my sole

anchor to the moment.

Already there were a dozen

things I longed to do.

The most mundane

chore was to be

enjoyed anew.

I could feel the morning 

breathing

as though the world itself

were taking a mutual breath.

Or was this God pulsating

in the eardrum of my soul?

Something, I will say,

momentous

 had occurred,

maybe even shifted.

I knew now

that just being alive

was reason enough for joy,

that there was infinite possibility

in the smallest, seemingly

most insignificant thing.

It was as if I’d been in pain

a very long time

and hadn’t even known it,

and then the pain lifted

and I was reminded what

the world was meant for;

everything required loving

and the privilege

was mine,

no, ours,

 to feel.

Peter Valentyne

August 18th, 2019