Pondering the Beatitudes for 2025

American Beati-Haikus

Days before the cold rain turned snow to mud,

he glances out the frosty bathroom window at dawn,

sees a fisher cat gliding across the frozen lawn.

Blessed are the poor in spirit.

Moments later, under the warm quilt

with his beloved, he hears a pack of coyotes howling,

listens to the missing voices inside the walls of his house.

Blessed are those who mourn.

When he can no longer lie still, he goes

downstairs, turns up the heat, bundles up against the cold,

walks out the kitchen door to feed the birds.

Blessed are the meek.

On the snowy lawn he sees fisher cat tracks

and turns around and around, a clumsy ballet dancer

in the silent forest, bears in caves, snakes in dark caverns.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Later he gets in the cold truck, drives along the frozen river,

black ice at the Humpo, ice skirts around the trees,

a red fox crossing in front of his daughter Nancy’s driveway.

Blessed are the merciful.

At the intersection of Mountain Rest Road and Springtown,

Zach Bryan singing “God Speed” through scratchy speakers,

he spots a red-tailed hawk sitting on a telephone wire.

Blessed are the pure in heart.

As he drives past last summer’s corn stalks poking through

snowy fields off Route 299, he sings Only God

and my mama know what I need, his lower lip trembling.

Blessed are the peacemakers.

After crossing the steel bridge, accelerating up the hill,

he comes to the light in this sanctuary town. It is almost 2025

on this cold and bright morning in the mountains.

Blessed are those who are persecuted.

Blessed are those who know no better

Blessed are those without blessings.

       —SL, 01.01.25, New Paltz, NY

BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL

It just might come to pass this new year’s day

that you have arrived on a train platform without a ticket

(I’m thinking New Hamburg, but you might imagine

a station closer to home), and when you feel a rumble

underfoot, hear steel wheels whining, then blurred faces

speeding past, disappearing into the future past, you’ll see

what you’ve always known to be true: there is nothing

magical in a new year’s eve, just as there is nothing mystical

about new year’s day, although you might see

the miracle of your breath in the moment

before it disappears as a wandering cloud

mixing with the breath of strangers

waiting with you, standing teary-eyed from the cold,

fingers and ears burning, everyone anxiously

peering through the scratched plasticene shelter

until the locomotive appears, squealing like a newborn,

doors disappearing into themselves as you sit down

next to a someone who smiles, makes room for you,   

and as the train slows through gray river towns, empty

commuter parking lots, maybe you’ll see the conductor

slip the clicker into his pocket and walk by.

—SL, 01.01.25, New Paltz, NY