Poem

His wife waits by the gate.
The afternoon meal is all but finished.
What will you say to her, which of the speeches, long prepared, will fall

trippingly from your tongue?

The village center's just a short walk. The parson
is a clever man, and fancies himself a puppeteer.
You watched him play out Luther's amazement

with a small stringed toy. Still, the point is made.

We should all see differently, though of course,
some do, some are made to do. So it seems,
Lynn, so it seems (and here you pause,

thinking better). Well, let's go for a walk.
I've been inside all day. The train must have been
dreadful. But nice to leave the city?

Lynn's clothing is severe. She speaks

using her hands, and says she didn't expect
any of it to happen. It's just chance,
the chance we take. Yes, you say,

yes, Lynn. We took it. And you don't, or can't

touch even her arm. And she won't, can't
grimace, laugh. It happened on a roadway,
you say, in a German landscape. All of a sudden,

where God wasn't, God was. We might be so lucky.