In Memory of David . . .

We sit and we break bread,
the  four of us less one.
We think of him but do not speak of him
who misses us as we miss him.

Our loss so great, the pain so blue,
we can but weep.
Yet so close we sit,
the thinnest veil between us,
the four of us less one.

We are who we are,
created by slow cooking
of heaven’s desire for perfection,
like garden vegetables simmering.

We’ve come through long years of drought
with parched throats and no cold storage
for the scrubby pickings of the mind’s  fruit.

Now it is morning,
fresh and free of pain, newborn.
We’ve slept the night on buckwheat pillows.
Now the promise
that our bowls will be filled
and we will eat.

Communion at the rail on bended knee,
waiting to be lifted up.