Teach

Snow-dusted,
he stepped into the yawning silence
at the front of the classroom
where students, slumped at desks,
dutifully waited,
dreaming of Saturday.
He paused,
aware of the phalanx of uninterest,
then climbed up on the desk
and sang.
The snow melted,
wetting his hair,
dripping down his face
like tears,
as this marvel unfurled.
After all these years
I don't remember what song it was,
perhaps something from Shakespeare,
or Gilbert and Sullivan.
But this remains,
this passion, this ardor
filling a man's whole being,
who would
teach
not knowledge, not history,
not formulas nor facts,
but joy.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 29, 2016

Wall

Long after some cataclysm
has wiped the world clean of old men,
and children no more laugh with glee
when spring peepers sing,
these overgrown New England hills
still will bear the signature
of the ones who struggled here
to make this rugged place a home.
The old stone walls
that crisscross the wild hills
are sign of a vision of cleared land,
of fertile fields and herds of cattle,
of barns and houses and steeples raised.
Sinewed arms and sweaty backs
piled granite slabs in imagined lines,
claiming a piece of unclaimed earth
to live where love was always hard,
to watch a son or daughter grow,
to wait as nights and winters
came and went,
and then, at last, to be buried in this earth
and consecrate it once again with hope.
Walls are the footprints
of those who dreamed--
a great and foolish dream--
that some piece of earth
could be theirs.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 28, 2016

Doubt

Doubt
the easy answers,
question half-truths,
be wary of the platitudes
of politicians and preachers.
Dig deeply for what is real,
trusting most those things
which are full of compassion,
generosity of spirit,
humility and kindness.
Be ready to change your mind,
especially when your conscience
whispers for attention.
Doubt
is the partner of wisdom.
It is the unmarked path
which leads to faith
and freedom.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 27, 2016

Fruit

These are what remain,
shriveled, small,
the last of the crabapples
left from a fruitful season.
They are winter's remnant,
the dregs that have stayed
through snow and dark,
a final feast in fasting days.
Inside, there is some sweetness,
and the hungry robins know
this goodness may suffice
until another summer comes.
These wrinkled things
will help a heart to beat,
a life grow feathers and fly--
as we may, too,
with our final fruits.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 26, 2016

Clean

She came to be baptized.
Once such a beautiful child,
she had fallen hard
into the open sewer
through which her sullied heart
had traveled.
Her once tender spirit
bore ugly wounds.
Neglect, addiction, deceit
had left her fearful, jaded,
lonely and alone.
She arrived in tears,
daring to believe that
there might be one more chance,
that she might once more be
clean.
As she came up out of the
green river,
she shook the sacred water
in a glittering halo of hope,
laughing past her pain,
not exactly untarnished, bright, or pure,
but feeling washed,
or possibly forgiven,
in a shaft of morning light.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 25, 2016

Tree

So many have died,
felled by the great plague
that took them,
one by one,
from our streets, our cities.
Those great arching elms
stood once like cathedrals,
shading the world--
friends, protectors,
witnesses of time.
And then, in a season,
they were gone.
But this one still stands
as guardian and sentinel,
a faithful old friend
in the center of our town,
carrying some secret in its core
that has kept it safe,
green and whole.
Its great limbs reach up,
a fountain of hope,
stirring in us
something at our center,
calling us to be sturdy, strong,
brothers, sisters who endure.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 24, 2016

Heart

Life is at the heart
of the wood,
the spark waiting 
in the tiniest seed
for sun, or water,
to set it free.
Each tree, each fish,
each flower,
each handsome bacterium,
each wailing baby,
each panting dog circling its bed,
each pinyon jay soaring in
the scented mountain air,
is rife with this beating force,
thrums with the rhythm
of the living heart
which is at the center of
everything,
which is at the center of
me.


--Timothy Haut, Feb. 23, 2016