DiaBLOGue

Most of my life I’ve believed what these eyes see 
these hands can touch, 
that seeing and touching—being touched— 
ends when they nail the coffin lid on. 

Their shovels grate rock and gravel to fill 
the grave she’d scoff empty of their grief— 
“Hey, guys, I’m with God!” she’d proclaim. 
“I’m not here, guys! I’m with Jeeeeezus, singing!”

The boy, sixteen, is taller than his mother, taller than
the creaky man with shining eyes and trembling hands. 

You light between tall trees, never trip 
on roots—and yet leave heavy footprints. 
Bounding toward the surf, you pause for me: 
together we will touch the sacred. 

For them, 
there was no between 
they believed the tale 
and trekked to testify 
and walked and walked 

The wind is simple 
a thing with pacific bite. 
Lifting foam tatters, cold. 

The Word was made Flesh 
and the Flesh made Words. 
He fed the Five Thousand 
on words shaped like loaves 

Outside my window 
one lone dead tree 
is standing firm 
in brave desiccation