‘I have found the secret of life,’ he whispered; the God within,
bounty of the soul that is written and re-written, hailed
once upon a time on tablets but not carried down a mountain
by a wizard; a burden on soft shoulders, written
in few words, yet he sings his song in all languages.
Hebrew -Spanish, he is all as his days grow short
and he must tell a story learned; invitations that slipped
through holes of garments ready for fire.
They will burn - turn ashen, return to hard ground that
once spewed lies, promises of re-birth . . . gentle companion for
the narrow mind. This dirt, the same dirt his mother
scattered shells buried in salt- cleansing balm
she spread and prayed upon, waiting for spring glory
to rise and give welcome.
A saint, a woman speaking in tongues, telling
tales of family and genes. She left him early on a morning
without light, and he forgot God, a boy who forgot God.
Now voice mentor soft, wise, prepares hard ground with
everything and nothing but knowledge he would garnish
on the smallest flower who would listen. He scatters shells.
Moderation, indifference - the poison lay within
rejection of what we can not have in a world that offers all.
‘Listen, Stillwater. God is you and God is me, God is within.
A familiar mantra offering little sustenance to a broken heart
‘You are yet not there, but soon, very soon; I will come and breathe
life into your shallow poems. I will never leave tho’ I be gone,
and you will know.’
Janet K. Brennan
Feb 1, 2011