For my friend, Robin
My friend writes of walking in the orchard,
plucking a peach,
savoring the sweet-juicy of the day,
the walking with her husband,
the orchard,
the peach.
I am homesick for my friend.
My friend writes of working in her studio
breaking up thrift-store pottery,
cementing patterned pieces in place,
creating piquant pique assiette mosaics.
I am empty-handed homesick for my friend.
My friend writes of their new house
set among vineyards, of putting out
her first garden there, preparing the soil,
scattering seeds, setting seedlings
in nests of soft earth.
I am deep-down homesick for my friend.
My friend moves with measured steps,
regal in socks and clogs, standing tall,
living Zen, Buddha-smiling,
unfolding to enfold—
mother-chaplain-champion for many,
now her own daughter struggling in the
post-op weeks after a lung transplant.
I am homesick in-the-Spirit for my friend.
I haven’t seen my friend for more than a year.
I am 365 different kinds of homesick for her.
But we live not that many miles apart.
There’s more to my homesickness than this.
It is not just my friend I miss.
I miss the rough-diamond parts
of myself I see polished, shining in her:
she who plucks the moment of peach,
she who makes art of kaleidoscope pieces,
she who cultivates love with the natural world,
she who carries the balm of Spirit where she goes.
Ann Keiffer
December, 2010
Photo Credit: Flickr Creative Commons License Don Hankins
