Vespers

The hammer falls silent, a mourning dove coos in the pigeon house by the olive grove, and in the renovated church the bells ring for vespers.

oo

I close the ancient Book of the Sea to read from a pocket-sized manual of prayers, trading soundings and silhouettes of headlands for another anchorage:

Now that the day hath run its course, I praise thee, O Holy One…

And if my petitions for favor lead to an examination of the soul?

Forty years ago, boarding a sailboat, I saw my father wind his watch around his wallet, a stripe of gold cinching a wad of leather, like an amulet.

And when the mast snapped in a gust of wind, capsizing the boat, his watch and wallet sank to the bottom of the lake.

What I remember from underwater were the bubbles of my breath rising to the surface, the taste of algae, the greenish tinge of the sun and sky.

Thus a life of pure sensation passed before my eyes—and little has changed since then.

Time and money, my father joked, rowing back to shore.

To which I add: Into thy hands, O Lord Jesus Christ, my God, I commend my spirit…