Inanimate Praise Poem by nathan martin

cold has no time, motion has no voice

and it has been so long since the stones
cried out in the open fields. hardened
still cold stones whose only reflection is
to bruise all flesh.

now i do not believe these hands that move
before me. i cannot consider the vulgarity
that comes through my wrist or lips in any
given moment.

so many these incomplete comparisons that
cause me to sail my wooden hummingbird
arms and legs through the air wildly.

now i forsake my simpler self to observe the
ripples in air that seperate the truth
from lies.

perhaps it is motion that is the deciever
and stillness is the only truth.

all things return to the earth from where
they came and the sabbath never moves
except for maybe in the house of the lord.

where the beauty of the lords holyness
is shown with the uplifting of finger printed
palms.

yet even now how still this oak pew remains
beneath me, revealing all truth in its calm
four legged reverance.