I thought that I’d catch God when he passed through;
I spent the morning weaving
words into strands I stretched
across the place where two oaks bent
and kissed
each other in the clearing.
The sky was clearing;
he’d have to seek the shade.
Wouldn’t he?
I thought that I’d catch God when she passed through.
I must have scared the family of raccoons
who scuttled backward
up the dead trunk
of the dead tree
that she’d left standing;
she would not leave me standing
here, alone in webs of words; she’d have to come to me.
Wouldn’t she?
I’d spent the morning weaving.
Spent my breath on words like threads
That stretched in crazy patterns out;
where I thought lines were straight, they bent
and caught each other up
at angles
I could not explain.
I tried to explain
and fell
instead
in words like webs
and struggled there.
I thought that I’d
— oh never mind.
I thought that I’d catch God as God passed through.
I spent the morning weaving.
Pretty words to pin him down, or her,
I was not thinking
of God the wind come sweeping in.
Strands break, heartbreak.
Will my heart break?
Each word torn and tossed away like that; the wind cannot intend this.
Can it?
Wait.
Wind like breath and sun
Words caught in air and light as one.
Each one free again
breathed again,
released.
A baby raccoon watches
from a high tree as they float by,
each one, this time, exactly what
I meant.
And left behind is only rest.
Rest here, in the quiet shade with me
Lie down; of course.
I would not leave you standing.
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