Wednesday, February 9, 2011

I said it first to the dirt that I am a prophet; I say no words
without first consulting the faith

made of blades of grass, our unassuming apostles, alive
to bow their backs

to the feet of others, those of no faith, who still know themselves
as pieces
of a wide something, pebbles in some design

(manmade, of course -- though I suppose man is still in the make)

spread thin beneath our feet. When I first looked down
and saw the dirt, I realized that here, too is a prophet of things
to come, mute but for love of the world.

1 comment:

becca said...

beautifully written