Poetry - Catching the Spirit

Catching the Spirit
 
I don’t notice the turtles until I hear the splashes, 
just catching sight of two disappearing into the water.
The other, the biggest, still sits on the log, long striped neck
turned to watch me. A splash of raindrops makes the water
sparkle, and he is suddenly too beautiful to bear.
 
     Well, I guess you do have ears to hear;
     at least that’s something.
     I am waiting at the river.
     Do you come down each morning
     to say hello, to sit and wait back at me,
     to let me know I might trust you?
 
     No. You are a tourist who charges by,
     counting on a sight to tell the folks about
     as you compare notes in the parking lot.
     (I’ll bet you expect to catch the Holy Ghost
     tomorrow too, your first Sunday back since Christmas.)
 
     But we are not in the business of wonder-by-demand.
 
     You ask for blessings, but have you prepared yourself
     to be blessed? No, don’t answer.
     I hear you muttering your to-do lists and counting your aerobic steps.
 
     You want to be grabbed by the hair and swung to face amazement.
     But we don’t work that way.
     (Well, maybe sometimes we do. But who are you to count on it?)
 
His eyes never leave mine.
Two damselflies hover in the air between us.
I cannot stop myself; I take a quiet step toward him.
Instantly, he is gone, the loud splash his reproach and invitation.
 
I walk on, watching the ground carefully as hundreds of tiny peepers scatter before my feet.

​
by Joy Salyers, (c) 2006