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.
