creek full to the limit
kisses the high stone banks
& bleeds into the woods
even air is denser, sweeter
more sipped than breathed
& everything green
grown sleek with water
saturated from the roots up
yesterday’s thirst pale memory
written lightly
on bottom leaves
nothing moves now
except what touches wind
& then
once touched
it bows
in heavy gratitude
you hold key and lock
one in each hand and cannot
see the solution?
***
you lock and unlock
your answer a pendulum
swinging yes and no
a stone has whatness
that is measured, tasted,
seen & felt as stone
& not feather
its howness
weighed first in my hand
so I know
how very much stone it is
heavier than air
that is slingshot
through that proven air–
its target your head
see?
I have proven
it is a stone
sorry,
I just bruised you
with ontology
or at least
a stone
***OK, you philosophers out there–did I miss a step? Sure it is inaccurate, as it has been years…
we used to ride bikes here
our tires fluttering with playing cards
threaded & tied to the spokes
how many times did we race past
this spot
where I would bury you?
if our 2 halves
of the same heart
cry out to each other
& shape their energy
like magnets
of opposing polarity
& similar strength
physical laws dictate
they will meet somewhere
between where you & I
are standing
what will they form
when they fuse
if not bliss?
there was always this light
refracting, reflecting, nourishing
this sun all life basks in
or stretches leaves toward
an energy to capture
or revel inside
how does something timeless
feel so new?
they are trapped in the thou shalt nots
& forget forgiveness, quoting over & over
a book wiped away by the new covenant;
twisting theology to fit
their own brand of rightness
why are we silent,
opening our mouths only
to sing hymns, we
who love God but not the politics
that claim to own him
as if Jesus had a political party,
as if greed and hate were ever virtues
letting them borrow the appearance of faith
to whitewash inner wrongness,
forgetting the lessons
of the pharisees
their external purity
masking something old, dead
& very human
nothing divine lives
in those tombs
they call hearts
***I doubt this poem needs an introduction–we all know who it is for.
Susan Daniels Poetry 