It’s just a bench.Teak. Backless. Someassembly required withfour brass bolts. The sortof bench on which old mengather at the end of their daylike weary crows on a wire. Iremember them in small Peruvianpueblos seated on the corners ofminor plazas across from San Miguelor Santa Teresa or any other cathedral.
And now in my own backyardI still hear their bells summonand cajole as I carve level groundfrom sloped earth and roots, just beyondthe Torii gate hewn from the fallen white pine,oriented carefully so I face East in the mornings,sit with hopes and words for this day unspoken—until my heart and head become the same,
and though it’s never a prayerI rise rested and ready,
as if flying.