At marsh’s edge among the groundsel trees
a lone figure stands in tattered khakis
and torn yellow shirt. He offers praising pleas
with arms in a “why” before the expanse.
An anxious faith pervades his petrous stance
that someone will nod to his suppliance.
His now-life slumps in a satchel
on the weeds by his feet that straddle
existence between separate societal
circles: one turns within community
safely housed; the other spins without security
dependent on unpredictability.
Fervent mental monologue saturates
his countenance, desperation promulgates
silent, pleading praises. And so he waits
a transition man in the tidy-wild,
the swath where tame and free are reconciled,
waits as though to be lifted like a child
from his altar in the marsh.
Catherine Favole Gruber 