You are a blue bonnet humming plain chant
in a pew of corduroy pillows while God is
on her knees praying foliage and air survive.
The minister is paid to say nothing in many words.
Too bad. Every word is a troop in the war of
the quiver with silver arrows
attacking nothingness and the hollow cavern.
Love is hooked over a rafter.
Anyone in the chancel could look up and see its cant.
And if it falls? Imagine love falling into
your lap or on your head or the palm of
your hand as you try to
meditate.
Much in life comes down to one word.
Them's that know it see joy swing from the rough planks
sorrow hover as a goose feather cirrus
the sleeping lion golden in high grasses
bothered sex steaming in a far window's light.
Them's that don't want that word.
Your ear grows like a trumpet and suctions itself to your heart.
photo: Steve Weber SteveWebel.com/photographer/
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