Father Andrews

Jake, for the record, life does go on. Tuesday
gives way to Wednesday unremarkably.
The stars in their firmament behave like stars.
The morning traffic makes its mindless way
from one preoccupation to another.
Little changes. You knew as much yourself:
we have our day, and others after us
into their sparkling moment and out beyond.
We have our little say and then are silent.
But still, you met the mourners at the door,
and pressed the heavens with their lamentations
and tried to make some sense of all of it,
then saw them to the edge and home again—
the way we see you now, our level man,
out of the morning’s worship into the sun,
the coach at the curb, and on your way again.

All material copyright The Atlantic Monthly Group. All rights reserved.

POETRY NOVEMBER 2008
Father Andrews
by Thomas Lynch