Maestro

You are the stone
thrown into the pond,
the soil spread over the seeds,
the clouds building on the horizon.

As you withdraw from the surface,
you will not know of the waves
you have created,
but they will be there.

As you are absorbed,
you will not know of the branches
that stretch toward the sky,
but they will be there.

As your tears fall
through the silent air,
you will not know
of the desert below
or of its thirst,
but they will be there.

And as the pond
becomes still again,
as the stone and the sky
are united in its reflection,
as they sit down in the shade,
as they begin to drink,
they will know
it was you.

Bacon Grease

Bacon grease always seemed the happiest to me in a hot pan. I remember my mother pouring the bacon grease into a jar after the bacon was done cooking. Finding a place for it in the fridge. I imagine that bacon grease now: too cold to flow, waiting to be used, wanting to be used, eager to find out what it would become when it was returned to the pan.