“Then it happened, as they were parting from Him, that Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; and let us make three tabernacles: one for You, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” – not knowing what he said.” (Luke 9:33 NKJV)
King’s rises drenched in whispered fog,
each tree intestine dusted in late morning dew.
This is a view I want to keep forever, but something
strong and primal prevents me from taking a picture.
I do not want to be a stuttering Peter,
a hand’s breadth from the face of God
and erecting tabernacles where they do not belong.
I try to learn by heart the faint
outline of each ancient turret, the embryonic cloud
dancing alive over the water’s surface.
I think of the boy I love,
and our afternoon walk yesterday:
how his glasses misted over and he stopped
at the crest of the bridge to see beyond his fingertips.
A girl sat on a wall by the river,
book half open to the sunlight,
and I could see him frantically writing himself
into her unfinished novel.
How I wished he would have kissed me then,
but knew I could not build a tent
I would not know how to tear down.
I’m crying across that bridge now,
scrambling for a clearer picture
than my milky memory allows.
All I can retrieve is the chorus of a thousand scholars,
urging me to make them proud.
Display Image Credit: James Appleton