One Story Leads to Another . . .

I have seen the Oak Tree weep

and I have no speculative answer

nor spurious question as to why?


It has responded to a force not yet

calculated on the chart of the heart.

Wonder, O Philosopher, on this brain.


I have seen the earth open its volcanic

mouth and belch inappropriately, and

all the smiles around the dinner table smile.


Inexcusable poor manners its blighted

head growing fitfully into something

unimaginably hopeful: a new portrait.


The dead have been called from the

dark they have enjoyed; I am left

wondering who else loved the darkness?


I am yet old and lame from rich time

because I ignored all the answers laid

before my eyes which the wind blew away.


I know a sun that has given testimony to my blood

and to my breath. I am familiar with love and its

attendant finality, and I have adjusted to what comes.


The time that comes. I am a coded occurrence that rejoices

when that specific moment arrives and lay claim to my life

and what I put my hands to to alleviate pain and suffering.


I have no warnings and no advice. I did what I did because

I was willful and did not know how my will would access

the final leavings of my flesh, nor what my will should be.


Speak sometimes, quietly, and speak love fully all the time.

Speak the truth to the madman in our lives, and to that which

we have crafted out of necessary thoughts and imagination.


Our words are nothing but sound and air

before we write them down for the good

of all, in celebration, in celebration.


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