war
Could it be that being
is the greatest
act of war?
very serious business
Bend
lower, still lower
until your eye is level
with the little creatures.
Take note of their business,
the very serious business
of being
chipmunks, beetles, and ants –
your claws upon the furrow,
your nose to the stone,
sniffing for a snack,
filling up a home.
Maybe there is more up high
to being human,
but I think not.
These little ones know,
(by virtue of proximity)
that the earth is alive,
and how to live and die upon it
in the very serious business
of being
small.
needle tracks
I’m more comfortable
keeping company with addicts,
cozying up to junkies,
sharing needles
over stories passed
out like methadone –
a retreat from being better,
but knowing all along
the path leads inward past the scar.
Inside, I know who I am:
Can’t sit still in the pew.
Falls asleep in the alley.
Not suitable for polite company.
So I listen
to songs sung
by despondent drunks,
broken stories
worn by beaten-down ruts,
because they feel familiar,
like the tracks that I’ve worn smooth.
But I don’t,
really,
know all of who I am,
until I look along Your scars,
and see
an addict, yes;
despondent, true.
A broken child, yet
loved by You.
groundwork
But how will we come to know ourselves
except framed
by the place we have not left
or do not plan to leave?
It is in roots clutching earth
and leaves grasping sky
that we take hold
of our own heights and depths,
and know them all better.
It is by long lingering
in one place
that we begin to see it,
and ourselves by it.
Stay a while.
If you have feet,
sink them into this soil
and let the quiet dawns do their work.