If All the Wood in the World

If all the wood in the world were to sing

and every rose gave a political speech

and every cloud took pity on its neighbor

and every stone composed an epic poem about
being a stone

and every dust mote were aware of its
mortality as it lay or drifted onto the
curved or flat surfaces of things

and the blind archer let go of his bowstring
and his arrow sang out its target as it
flew through to its intended goal

and the air itself through which it flew
hummed in anticipatory monotones

and water blew wet kisses to the sky

and every flame danced Flamenco
stamping itself out with its own heels until quenched

and each of us saw God direct with our
own eyes in naked vision
as clearly as we see ourselves stooping to
drink from a lake

cupping the water with our hands and
catching our eyes looking back at us
as snowy mountains go up around us to the
peak of the sky

And each of us knows we see this and
acts upon it

and phones ring with the news

But there is no news

It’s as old as God
though there be no time with God

and everything is therefore inside-out to
what it seems

and that raw inner surface is
where our existence lies

singing to the clouds and roses
and the blur of things as well as their clarity

and everything stops though it
never stops but only

flows or floats or seems to stop and start so
fast it’s like movement but is immobile

as only God moves

though He be motionless

---

11/5/2006 (from In the Realm of Neither)

Categories: Poems