A poem for the start of fall

Here is a poem I recently wrote.  It is more about the end of summer, than the beginning of fall, but appropriate right now anyway.

You may here echoes of my earlier post on fishing.

I hope this blesses you, inviting you to glimpse the sacred all around you.

And I’m not just whistling Dixie here,

your progressive redneck preacher,

Micah

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Cosmological Constant

 

“Split a log and I am there;

lift a stone and you will find me”

So, they tell me, you have promised.

 

But I remember my little hands,

fingers growing blackened and dirty

from splitting rain-softened logs,

in which I found

but damp worlds unexpected

grubs and bugs crawling in tiny colonies

dug deep into ancient wood

which were as busy and full of life

as the exhaust filled asphault streets

which are surrounded not by echoing bird song

or crunch of leaves

but the squeal of tire and honk or horn.

 

Stones I then lifted

only to feel damp earth beneath

full of red worms

that wriggled wrapping round my fingers

as tight as that red forget-me-not string

I once placed on my pinkie

to remember an upcoming birthday.

 

I cannot but wonder

had I heard you whisper those words then,

while gathering those night-crawlers, crickets, and grubs

preparing to ride with daddy

to the lake behind Uncle Charles’ old place

in search of bass, catfish, and brim,

might I have thought

that those insect eyes

I found staring back at me

were yours,

the very eyes of God?

 

I remember too,

while sitting with Cecil

in biology class

watching

that drop of water, pressed into thin slide,

expanding under borrowed lens

into a world

where little galaxies

of amoebas, bacteria, and algae

danced as if across some new-found patch of sky

just like the schools of fish

daddy and I watched when, our chore done,

we sat pole, in hand, waiting for our first bite.

 

Those moments I would look up

surrounded by the song of owl cries and bobcat calls

mingling with the music of overeager crickets

who were unaware of their fallen brothers

hanging like victims of some forgotten war

upon our fishing hooks

and I would witness

the same dance there,

in pinpoints of light

circling a crescent moon

as bright and radiant as the lights

of Los Angeles were

when they gleamed beneath the lookout point

in the La Crescenta hills

where my wife and I later sat

in soft embrace.

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