Preface: The idea of bistro tables that I mention in this poem was a whole new perspective on life that God showed me back in January. When it was young it really did bring new life to me. But temporal life happened and I got caught up in so many things that I actually completely forgot about it. I was reminded of it Friday, and this is what was born out of that moment.

 

The idea of bistro tables
rapt-tap-tapped
on my brain the other day.

I opened to find an old acquaintance,
one I had once thought I would get to know quite well,
standing soaked in the rain,
an island of black in a sea of grey.

At first I did not recognize,
flipped through my memory banks like a Rolodex.

That moment passed,
so awkward,
that time slowed
to a crawl.

But the awkward did not lift
when recognition came around.

Instead it deepened and matured,
proved, yes, this is an awkward encounter.
Feel free to fight or flee.

For what had I done with the seed of hope God had planted in the soil of my soul?
After its burial it grew and peeked a sapling through the earth.

And I?
I forgot it.
Forgot all about it.
Forgot to water or protect.

This seed of an idea that promised new life to me,
I left to die.

Now this old acquaintance
waits silently on the porch,
clutching hat in hands like an officer,
come to report the death of a loved one.

Except the death

was my own.

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