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)
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