Parables

When I approach the evening a last time
with ashes and the silence of apples
or the sea and its pull from land
then the calm left over from the wind's retreat
across the world a thousand miles
returns to fill in the empty corners...
a calm that comes and goes
without a place or designation
as the spirit does.
At times our many words intrude
and we cling to them with hope that somehow
they will fit and save us.
But in the end we are here alone
with only poor translations.
We talk and our speech is punished by our lives.
What remains
the ravishing largess of Parables
for they depend on what is left unsaid
as when on our last day together I look up at you
without desire
and we begin to make our preparations for the Journey.
And yet it is not as we imagined it
the rich man in his red hat
the poor one in his penance.
When the table is set
and the streets are empty
a light is burning in a cave somewhere
and the smallness of God is asleep
inside the wheat and water.
Then, the beggar multiplies
the loaves and fishes
and sings a Kaddish for the heart.
Outside the Polish village (that is no more)
The Messenger comes with his violin
and a little dance, the somnambulist
the stranger in our midst
the Rabbi of our confessions.
And later on when there is nothing left
to hold on to, when the trench is closed
and the bones poke up through the earth
and history is dumb with separation
then the power comes in staying awake
as though it mattered and the light
pours out of the sky and nails you to the Universe again.
In another time the mustard seed is fallen
and the leaves of trees give up their fortune
but to spend time with them is the secret.
They fall from the heart of color
at times driven by the wind they shower down.
But in late Autumn, no longer able to hold on
they glide aimlessly down down showing their small
fine leaves to the sun.
Time milks them dry and still in dying
they give a last sailing signature to the air
as though it were important to fall with grace.
For a long time now I have lived with them
I have watched them chase each other playfully
in the corners of buildings
and felt them rest against my face.
When the trees their sisters are bare at last
I remember the leaves falling
because they were so quiet in the way they left their places
they fell to the earth and asked for no memorial.

PART II

The world is not given with a first birth
it unfolds again and again
or at other times flashes out of the sun
or lives out of the pit.
In the cell blocks after dark
one Lifer builds a baby's crib
another carves into the meadow of a gull
the flight of birds come down to rest
from the visionary south.
At Thermopylae
they combed out their long Botticellian hair
and prayed against the terrible night of spears.
Or like Alexander in his thirst
poured water out upon the ground
because his troops were many
and he had but a single cup.
The Kingdom is like this
the lepers heal
and thus we re-enter the world a second time
and discover it is not ours
for suddenly there is purity
and hiddenness
the saving of one against the many
water from the rock
Hesed from the Samaritan.
And that is how it is
your love will be your Cross she said
in one of her visions and that was a voice
that promised everything and nothing.
And there would be no miracle to feed upon
just a labor that was offered up
and then forgotten. And there would be
no value in the "Things" we loved
nothing to sell and nothing to buy back.
The skunk with her kittens
marching by in single file payed no attention
to the lonely mountain of tires waiting
to be burned by countless generations
not a single stone to be turned over
for its treasure
just the sadness of the dump on the outskirts of town
where the wheeling birds overhead
would pick and pull against each other
in search of our improbable evidence.
In the Vineyard
love lived by what it made
and the gifts were the same
for the ones who relinquished
their rites of passage
and so she said your love will be your Cross

knowing full well
that for us it would never be enough.

In the fullness of time
the present falls between
the sand crab's shadow in late afternoon
and the scrawling sea.
And as one approaches and comes near
in a single hour
Creation is born for the first time
for the first time only.
Older than the stars
the Universe is ours for a time
and we receive an invitation
that is both genesis and revelation.
The Kingdom comes
and points in all directions
hidden within
it is always arriving
it is the marvel of feasts and fishes
loss and hard recovery.
The poor in the pueblos down in the valley
come to the table starved from the world
sad they rejoice
sorrowful
they are glad
for they have nothing
and are still not empty
they have forgotten
the time of their departure
and live.

James Lewisohn was the author of several books of poetry and prose and was studying at Bangor Theological Seminary in Maine when this poem appeared.