Pastor and Priest at Starbucks
Brandon Cook
Perhaps she did not know for certain that I, too, was a pastor, with a flock to tend that morning
But her collar spoke of her lot in some Lutheran or Episcopal church, no doubt
The black and white, a muted frock, still bold enough to speak that the world is full of opposites and absolutes,
Of bad and right, of dark and light
God, I miss the days of such clear notions
And categories in which to place all things
Though, perhaps, back then, the tradeoff for certainty was a lack of wind
Bereft the joy of a cooling breeze
And the colors, perhaps, were not so bright or full
They shook and wheezed, straining beneath our demand for righteous clarity
She nodded at me, knowingly, like you might before jumping out a foxhole, some line to charge, and I tipped my head, respectfully, as we stepped then into the morning, the sun just swirling the sky into magnificent orange
The world clearly in its state of longing once again, like a dog waiting for its master at the door
But we knew how patient the day would be with its mystery,
Unhurried and unfolding its secrets slowly,
Never leaving them beyond arm’s reach, and such strong arms with which to hold them, too
Content—the world is, always—to leave so much unsaid
The earth and morning at peace with our unknowing
As we sigh and face the wind