And I eat memories after Sunday services while the worldview of larvae melts into the crows and the sorrows bounce upon this gray roof. I sense she smiles regarding those birds tall like a long night's crime, but smaller than her, and much more forgetful. We move on with a rumble, yet still.
While all that's thought sweet like tar goes crumb-to-dust, sky is faster. Every new roof soon goes old over time. Important stuff lasts ever so sweet so many stories up and forever, she says. Stories and stories, none to forget. She is smart as Mother Earth, and maybe is indeed her. And thanks to her, I am not afraid. She knows the scurrying monkeys like to toss up small things. Like prayers upon her steeple, and memories to eat while savoring my copies of assorted carbon coffees from the sudden rain, none of it regular, yet regular.
By faith, we both know the church bell shall ring with its energies to bounce our beings. And our wedding bands shall loosen and tighten like rubber bands, one world, even if a world apart.
And, sure enough, the rain rivers upon the aging linen, under the wet sky, all the gray landscape maybe infinite but not. Just her. Somewhere what lasts is ever ready for the rain to runneth over. She and I know why. And here, as the bell indeed rings, we are here without even needing wings, no matter how high the oversized world is raging, no matter how far up an undersized kid can toss what seem to be lost prayers. It is a big and small world, far apart, even though we are each so, so very close. We wonder of our ebbing home, worry for our own future blameless children, and go weary over lost steel.
The big are as the little. The little are as the big. Line upon ongoing line. So much hidden and so much looming to be seen. And we all can open eyes to the traces. Deep within each other, vast just the same.
Saturday, January 18, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: individuality,mother earth