The House of God
Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, "Surely the Lord is in this place - and I did not know it!" And he was afraid, and said, "How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate to heaven." Genesis 28:16-17
i.
hot as hell
the last three weeks
of this century of global warming
last night at last it rained
a long slow rain
water caressing depleted soil
blessing august with a meaning
that in this drought of hope
appeared almost lost
cool morning air
wet grass
sweet resonance of relief
trees exhale
an exasperated breath
held for days
in sweltering heat
buried roots pause
their stretch
for water
a few blue flowers yawn
at the yellow sun
bees of myriad
shapes and colors
resume their labors
but with a louder buzz
the whirr of a hummingbird
interrupts your thoughts
she hovers
glances to see
in this moment
who you are
and then
without remembering
is gone
*
there are those days
when the interior of the house
you’ve worked so hard to keep
seems worn out and ugly
mindlessly wrought
by no one for nothing
where more is never enough
an unfunny joke
of object after object
arranged without meaning
from end to end
as when an old acquaintance
who does not share your taste
unexpectedly shows up for a visit
or when you travel
to a foreign place
and your eyes open
to a new sensibility
and you cannot remember
why you now want
what you once wanted
or from where you come
veneer peels
and the paint
fades in blotches
on the walls
dust collects
in luckless drifts
of hair and debris
the dog has shredded
some useless toy
on the carpet
and you slouched
in the faded cushions
of the couch
wait for the dog
to clean it up
*
sometimes
the simple gift
with morning tea
is opening a book
left forgotten
for a decade
on a shelf
you wipe dust
from the jacket
open musty pages
read words
written by someone
you do not know
penned maybe centuries ago
or maybe not
a man with a strong voice
a hesitating rhyme
a woman who speaks from a distant time
to a place long closed in your heart
in a way this time and place do not
ii
after a light breakfast
of toast and flakes
you wander with nothing in mind
to the end of the wet lawn to the spot
where the tall grass of the wild meadow
begins rolling up through wavering pastures
spreading over distant mountains
rising to gray clouds on the horizon
disappearing into forever
the front door shut
your iphone left on a small table
unseen words splashing across its screen
like ripples stirred by bored fingers
disturbing the shiny surface
of some unknowable deep
the alerts
the arguments
the vibrating pleas
replaced by pitched bird chatter
a mockingbird swoops low
lands
inquires
with her cocked head
why you are here
at the beginning of the edge
without your hand-held device
the summer fox
fills his nostrils
with your scent
deer glance up
dismiss the danger
of your presence
asclepias nurse
their moist seeds
in mottled pods
a few orange butterflies
(named for kings) return
all wings and purpose
to the sticky milk of birth
*
wind does not wait
for leaves to brown
to blow and cast them asunder
wind heaves its heavy gusts
from almost north in late spring
from the dome of sky
to test the mettle of trees
and regale tender buds
rain is not programmed
to fall by the timer on
the irrigation system
of god the farmer
the mirth and mischief of water
are not confined to untamed oceans
clouds let loose
their silver torrents
their soaking mist and fog
and unmoored worms
and other spineless creatures
drown and wash away
but the bounty
of this shapeless power
does not linger about
the surface of what matters
in august the parched clay
tightens about dry roots
creation continues
at her own uneven pace
with her own ideas
of what is fair
and what is not
one way or the other
telling us she will not be undone
by time or what we have become
magical beyond rationing
an affront to each ego
who wants for a certain order
where there is none
who lashes out when
another day is over
and the rain has yet to come
*
are there any who believe
we can pray to alter weather
for thunderclouds to flash
for hurricanes to blow upon us
are there still a fevered few
who pretend god zips
through tiny prayers
like ethereal tweets
clicking the hollow heart
on an upgraded tablet
only for those who check
the boxes on an eternal chart
isn’t it easier to imagine
she just laughs and says
get on with it
look around
wake up
abandon the furtive whispers
the center may be still
but the plasma and the ooze
are bubbling twirling about
the world moves
one moment is not the next
one second by any measure
arranges and rearranges
points of view
decomposing wooden stumps
recomposing them anew
into previously unheard symphonies
that are nothing less than beautiful
*
why do we settle
upon a competition of lies
for naming rights to a world
that inexorably removes
its hospitality for unkind men
why do we battle plants
and in our arrogant indifference
need to label every life we touch
these so-called weeds
staring back at us
have as much right
to be here as we have
to pull them up
and what are the odds
of our prevailing with
their million to our one
and what is the likelihood of success
with a billion redundant seeds
against days toiling in the sun
why do we continue to delay
the closing of this feckless age
devoid of common truth
rife with needless hate
sadistic in its manipulated anger
why do we abandon
who we are at heart
to follow salacious prophets
and unaccomplished crooks
who peddle their exalted place
at the center of each nation
in their retelling of the story
it’s divinely ordained for them
to be the privileged owners
of plantations surrounded by gardens
of country estates ripped from meadows
of white-columned mansions all wired and lit
at the top of appropriated hills
how is it that we’re free
to disregard rotting trusses
and spent joists framing god’s house
to overlook moldy rooms
where air is foul to breathe
pay no heed to damp foundations
crumbling under foot
free to ignore what becomes
when what’s inside walks out
*
where is faith in
what we are together
each moment
we have the power
to part anew
firmament from water
to ask ourselves
if our hearts will
more likely open up
will our tightened fists
better unclench
in fathomless depths
or rocky heights
do not be fooled
do not consent
choose your forty days
and forty nights
abandon the search for answers
and go forth and join arms
with the arms of others
iii
so with nothing in mind
you wander across
the face of cut lawns
and linger near the wild meadow
until the sun is high and gnats swirl
in an annoying swarm about your head
and what victory is to be won
arguing with gnats
what language do they grasp
what human reasoning
might coax them not to stick
or fly into every open spot
swats and slaps are pointless
and a chemical repellent
is poison for naught
they come and stay and stay
and then they come and stay again
until the logic of their argument
persuades you to leave
go back inside
*
it is not always clear
what's good
what can be done
the unbreakable gift
is that god leaves the work of creation
utterly incapable of completion
and those who hold otherwise are fools
these endless days
often devoid of meaning
where we must contend
exhausted from the journey
weary from the power
to make another person feel
tired of the futility
of trying to make it right
longing in the
nights that follow
so small beneath the stars
for an unexpected holiday
before another start
hoping for a day
like god’s seventh day