The arrival of the moon,
her slow dressing and undressing,
the silence of dawn before color,
the roar of the Sun that no one heeds,
these are timely.

What is timely
is the tick of mountains,
how they press forward beneath the silent sky,
how they grind their teeth in their sleep
until all are worn down.

Seasons.
The drone of the horsefly and mosquito,
the high purring of the Sandhill Cranes,
the song of frogs,
the decay of fallen leaves and the autumnal garden.

What is timely
fits like a familiar cotton T-shirt
made soft by long wearing.
What is timely
is the sudden intrusion of wit into discourse
the sudden intrusion of tears
as you spoke of your childhood
in the Bitterroot Valley.

Timely.
Death can come in a timely way,
speaks Her absolutely confounding Word
and the pine explodes one last time
in a florescent splendor;
or shades you or I with her black wings
and one must lie down.

What is not timely
is this Cancer,
that bursts into the room
arrogating all conversation unto itself,
who breaches your modesty
and pokes with doctor's fingers
into all your private places,
defiling the temple I was honored
to enter barefoot.

What is not timely
is this Cancer
uncovered/discovered lying
telling the womb, the cradle, the classroom
that it is a helpless embryo infant child
and needs, really needs, to be nurtured.

Cancer
takes a babe, children, or youth,
or those who might have had long years,
and leaves us bereaved, so pent up, sad, angry.

We have this in common, you and I:
survivorhood, bereavement,
the ache to help in the healing, and
the community we have thus inherited.

The work our Love requires of us;
This is timely.

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