Things

A worn scapula, the image of Christ

Fading away like the memory of his touch.

Imprinted upon the wooden cabinets:

His sheet of music, a missal, an encyclopedia,

And nylon strings for a guitar.

Rubbish some call it,

Treasure is what I’d prefer.

I am an apostle harboring his secrets of wine,

Bread of the body, and his wise words.

Doors to the cabinet open upon a fabled whisper,

Slight utterance, a breath of air once held

In the mouths of ancient kings.

Things are stars in the night sky of life,

We wonder about them,

And just as easily as shutting the blinds on light

They are again open, curtains drawn,

And Eosphorus commands our attention

With flaming torch in hand.

Things linger like a constellation of tombstones,

Read in them how to live and how to die

Honorably, beautifully, like a whisper,

And leave us with the knowledge our things will join

The sparkling cluster of rubbish.