From the Lives of Giants

 

In any given room

our elbows poke

from windows

as our feet push

through floors,

bewildered at having

grown so large.

when all we really

want is to fit in.

 

But how can we

when our heads

butt against

every ceiling

as if we were

live oaks

growing alongside

mummified furniture?

 

Unable to see

all of ourselves

in a mirror,

nor others

take in our

entirety,

our bellies

full of

waste or treasure

and no longer in danger

of being loved

we quietly grapple

with the consequences

of all we've been

taught to want.

 

Night makes it possible

to dream some

spiritual leader

has died.

Unable to view

the body

we are forced

to take others

at their word,

leaving little

more than

a deep despair

at the disappearance

of something so

vital to

our meaning.

 

Now, everywhere

we turn

is unrelenting loss.

We become

little more

than soft machines;

gleaners of surfaces.

A cup of green tea

merely a begging bowl

to move the bowels.

 

Having reached

the age

where we leave

a trail of particles

in the places we

spend the most time,

and now that

our great loves

can only be seen

through a telescope,

we’re left hoping

the distant light

of constellations

will finally make

its way to us.

The alternative 

may well be

petrified minds

of stone.

 

But memories can

return unbidden

like acorns dropped

from a height,

falling to the floor

via a gust of wind

as invisible as

they are

unshakable,

each plunk

in the dark

a dance

between sound

and listener,

as if stars

were being plucked

out of the night sky

or cherry pits spat

from a careless mouth

to land and trundle

as lifeless

as pebbles

left for dead.

 

Who wouldn’t wish

one’s heart

open as a flower

or a choir boy’s mouth

singing Haydn’s Creation

with youthful abandon.

But in fact

we wrestle with

leaving any

door open

as other acorns

hit the planks;

closing the circle

between beginning

and end.

 

Our past; islands

we never tire

of exploring,

a place where trees

are named after

our father, where

we can only marvel

at the natural harmony

that rounds

each of us

entwined or not,

dead or not,

each single leaf

a love letter

written

in green ink.

 

One thought

will persist:

Which of us

will stay behind

to sing our last

thanks to God?

 

7/24/23