Four Poems by Douglas Vandergraph

 

The Choir Loft After Everyone Has Gone

The rafters hold the last note

longer than the singers do.

Below, a woman folds the chairs

by the door she used to avoid.

 

The hymn was about a river.

She has crossed no river today,

only the narrow distance

between the back pew and a stranger

who asked her to stay for tea.

 

In the kitchen someone counts cups.

A child drops a spoon.

The organist returns for her scarf

and leaves the loft dark.

 

Somewhere in the building

water warms without an audience.

The woman lifts a chair,

feels its surprising weight,

and carries it beside the others.

 

The Apron on the Hook

My grandmother's apron keeps

one yellow thread of flour

inside the seam,

though the flour is gone

and she is gone.

 

We spoke of her faith

as if it were something she kept

in the highest cupboard,

safe from the children.

 

But here is its shape:

a knot tied twice,

a pocket stretched by oranges,

a small scorch beside the waist

where she leaned against the oven

to listen while somebody cried.

 

The hook has bent

from years of holding nothing.

I take down the apron

and mend the broken hem

without finding a single answer.

 

What the Window Did

Every morning the eastern window

returns the same street

in a different weather.

 

The man downstairs says

God ought to be more obvious.

I have said the same

without speaking.

 

Today a delivery driver

sets two boxes at the wrong door,

then carries them back

against the rain.

 

No trumpet. No burning bush.

Just a person correcting

something small

when nobody is watching.

 

The window admits

what light is available.

It never calls that light

its own.

 

Inventory of Unfinished Things

One envelope without a stamp.

Two buttons waiting for the coat.

A note that begins Dear Father

and does not know the next word.

 

On the shelf, a cracked cup

holds the keys of people

who have not been home in years.

 

I used to call this failure:

the work not ended,

the prayer not fluent,

the table set for one too many.

 

Tonight I wash the cup

and leave the place beside it clear.

An empty space can be neglect.

It can also be welcome.

 

For now the lamp stays on,

and the unfinished letter

lies open to the ordinary air.

Douglas Vandergraph is a writer and Bible teacher based in Fort Collins, Colorado, USA. His work explores the intersection of Christian faith, memory, everyday tenderness and resilience. He writes essays and literary reflections for a wide audience, and his work can be found at https://douglasvandergraph.com/.