Woodsmoke Rising From The Chimney... Poem by Eric Cockrell

it has come down to moments,
perhaps it always was...
small, tiny, rude, and precious moments.
orphaned, common, stinking moments.
holy, infinite, fleeting moments....

i know that god is alive,
i can feel her breath on the backs
of my ears.....
i can feel her long hair blowing
across my face on the longest nights.
i can hear her footsteps
in my darkest room...

there is a magic in the thorn,
a power emanating from the grain of the tree.
i know what forever tastes like,
and yet i have to be reminded.

there are no good and bad people,
just people wearing tired shoes and spectacles.
that which sustains must first die,
and sickness is the path of healing.
does not the bare limb tree grow erect
with longing? do not stars weep in need?
while sparrows draw maps across the mountains,
dying for the kiss of spring.

poor people hunched in kerosene rooms,
rolling cigarettes, laughing at the children playing.
while the wealthy toss and turn in sweated sleep,
stroking the guns of apathy...
yet all will die, some more than once,
leaving dust on time's windowsill.

prayers, and woodsmoke rising from the chimney.