He hadn’t touched a brush for weeks
Or sold a picture from his stock.
Joanna had rebuffed him, too,
So he rued the lack of romance.

Sour of mind, he wondered if
A strew of negatives would rule his life –
Doors that opened, closed, again, again,
Self-reproaches he kept quiet about,
And people who disappointed him.

He tried new things and drifted into worship
To find a better way of taking hold
But one that asked no thought or strain.

The angels that sang at creation...
A swathe of orange like the sky at dusk,
A flash of mountain jade,
Silver chants on Friday noon...
Sing each time a sinner turns to God.

The part of the message he took to heart
Deftly worked toward three o’clock
On a humming street
With maple shadows on the bricks
And sunlight winking off the tops of cars.

He saw instead of ordinary dross
A cloud-flecked mission bright and vast
And wondered what it meant.
Entranced, he failed to spot a driver who
Ran a light and slammed him to the ground.

II
Old Peachtree visited, a painter whom
He’d hoped would teach him
The secret of revival.
But Peachtree had collided with a dry spell, too
Hadn’t worked for months, found substitutes.
He’d seen him striding through Saint Mark’s
As if he were its feudal lord
And wanted others in their proper place,
Another irritant, the sort you wouldn’t want to see
Unless in a mood for cold-water truths.

“It’s good you looked to us for help,”
Said Peachtree, gratingly insensitive, he thought,
Not suspecting that his caller spoke
Mostly of himself and hoped he’d found
A younger brain to challenge him.

“You need to bring what you learn inside.
No easy task, even for us with years of practice.
You missed out if you wanted only good feelings back.
Dig below the surface, boy. Find the center.”

He looked away. Old Peachtree,
A parrot or squirrel, he decided,
Had gathered quaint remarks so vague
They brought no profit even to himself.

“The problem with unbelief is not the message
But we who think we hear,” Old Peachtree said.
“The point is this –
We’re wretches needing rescue
And when it comes, we hold on tight,
And banish fruitless turns of mind.”
Small wonder Peachtree’d lost the knack, he groaned.
No angels sang.

III
He avoided Saint Mark’s after that,
Blamed his accident on them,
Claiming they’d distracted him.
What’s more, they’d talk about his shame,
Since Peachtree was a leaky sponge.

The scratchy groove returned,
Doors slamming, self-reproach,
A gaggle of neighbors he couldn’t abide.
He walked with a limp, something like Jacob.
Drawing eluded him.

IV
A piece of news. Joanna slipped at practice,
Leaping half-way across the stage,
Tore a ligament in her knee,
Laid up now in his old room, 330-A.
He became the hopeful caller, then,
Disposed to learn.

They heard cars through an open window
Murmuring on the street;
Pigeons in the branches of an elm
Took off in rising arcs;
A breeze brought voices,
Laughing, teasing, the words of a song.

“They go on all the time,” she said, “the joys of life.”
“You’re feeling better,” he surmised.
“Will you dance again?” “The doctor says so.”
He told the story of his own mishap
About which she’d already heard
And that officious, disappointed Peachtree
Had nearly wrecked one day.

“A heavy hand just shuts us down,”
She agreed, “but are you sure you understood?
He must be suffering something fierce,
Striving for a deeper vein –
And no one to help.”

He’d brought a pad,
Tried to sketch the birds
With lines that didn’t satisfy.

“Mr. Peachtree told you only half,
It’s not just crosses – new life, too.
Angels have us in their hands.”
“Yes, if I had a woman to love,” he moaned,
And then abruptly, “You for instance.
Are you seeing anyone?”
In a stronger light, he told himself,
He’d have drawn her lambent smile.
“I’ve got lots of friends,” she said.
“Always room for more.”

He was cast down again, as she knew he would be,
Since he didn’t fight for what he liked.
“We’re irritating, too, you know, “ she said,
Brooding ceaselessly about ourselves.”

“Wretches, you mean,.” he tried for once to please,
“Who make things if the weather’s right,
But who can stand the storms?”
She doubted his persistence
And hoped he’d try again.

“We hate to stretch ourselves,” she said,
“Lucky that the One who makes
Things perfectly and fixes some of what
We break doesn’t turn away.”
“I’d love to see a few repairs myself,” he said.
“We hardly ever see since they’re inside.”
“Become a different person, then, you think?”
“We aren’t the ones who work the change.”
“Who then?”
“Who have we been discussing?”

He wanted her to keep on talking,
She preferred to let him wait and think.
He took his pad and drew some lines
To show the fall of hair upon her cheek.
A stubborn man, she thought. “I have
At least three friends more amiable than you.”
He let her comment pass. A dancer,
Not trained to reach for words,
She didn’t say much more.
She knew that the warnings and
Promises always come with power.
She invited him to call her when she got back home.
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he informed her,
“To work on the drawing I’ve just begun.”