A Nod to Marilynne Robinson
A poem
He would be first in my perfect
foursome,
talking prevenient courage as
I swing and hit dirt for the third time from the weeds way right of the rough
instead of simply punching out,
noticing the prairie
radiant beyond the turn,
remembering something his father said at that Kansas
graveyard, while he lingers over a putt. And
he would sit at my table
next to me
at the dinner party with Nick Carraway and Willa’s
Antonia, Belle Prater’s boy and Gypsy, Hans Hubermann, Norman
Maclean and Piggy
telling his stories slow like poetry and preaching all mixed up: his boy
holding his hand on the way to Boughton's, the day Lila showed up at
the church and splintered his own dark
time of loneliness,
the way light can feel on an afternoon. And
he would be the voice I
listen for as I choose the book to clutch as I dance my
last waltz around the study. No disrespect,
but you can have Atticus, I’ll take John
Ames every time, Christlike
and unadorned.
