Reaching

Reaching

Patrick T. Reardon

Each itch outside the sanctuary
of Saint Mary of the Flower
is rooted in the Florence street stones,
each tiny twitch of unrest before travel.

City of art-makers, art-savers,
mighty deeds on show.

Blast the trombone.
Growl the snare drum.
Shake the firmament.

Dance the crosshatch of languages,
the interwoven ages.

Stroll the plaza past the boxy Baptistry
and the replica Ghiberti doors,
beneath the inscrutable red-brick dome,
within the rhythm of the marble facade
— white and green with pink grace notes.

No one worthy of such mightiness,
and everyone.

Each maker, each stroller.
Each afflicted with itches and twitches.
Each anxious around a still point,
ungraspable.

He carved the awkward Pieta reaching
— all is reaching, a stretch across the abyss.

Making is a reach. Seeing reaches.

Nothing perfect.
You, me, him, his Pieta, marred.
Marred is worthy. Marred is reaching.

I reach into what he made,
unfinished as it is,
as he was even at the end,
as I am and will always be,
astretch and incomplete.

---

Patrick T. Reardon
Poet

Patrick, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, is the author of six poetry collections including Salt of the Earth: Doubts and Faith and Puddin’: The Autobiography of a Baby, A Memoir in Prose Poems. His website is patricktreardon.com.

Photography by Kai Pilger