Wolfe

Yesterday I found the ghost of Tom
Not by his tomb
Indeed it looked like few of many had been there
Recently, unsurprisingly –
This is not a season of writers but doers of the Word.
I found some spirits in the ancient Maple and Oak
Going chestnut and saffron for the next vinyasa.
I was given the intention,
To see everyone:
the bubblegum blond bagging groceries,
a magenta tobacco farmer at the Trump rally,
the bum on a corner with tawny mange,
the mullahs of Iran,
the addicts in church basements seeking a higher Power, one tradition, one less drink at a time,
as the created Word of God.
An easy task.
Once I stopped the judging of myself in Them.
Moving quietly into the brush of Winter,
In my Fathers’ sheepskin coat,
culling those parts of my divided self
For the compost bin.