The Porch

It seemed he’d been on the porch for forever, maybe even forever and a day.  He’d claimed a corner of it at some remote moment and arranged his meager belongings around him like the walls of a home that he did not have.  

The roof kept the rain off but provided no heat.  The door was too low for him to enter upright, though he’d seen others bow or crawl through it in his dreams (or were they nightmares?).  It just seemed so undignified.

He was resourceful, clever even, finding twigs and trash to make a little fire that he could warm himself with.  But then there was the smell of flowers that would waft through the door on the wave of a tripartite tune and so move him that his tears would extinguish his pitiful pyre leaving only damp ashes to contemplate.  

But this place was his and his alone, after all.  He would not leave it for another to claim.  Still, it seemed he’d been on the porch of the temple forever, and yet another day had passed.

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It wasn’t until I’d finished writing this poem that I realized it was echoing a scene from the life of St. Mary of Egypt in Jerusalem.  Like her, I’ve found my way onto the porch of the temple but it seems I can go no further without repentance.

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