The Stump

I dream of a world with no churches.
No walls, books or scribes.
Logic is not a deity, the words have been written before there were such things.
The verses came from sparrows, rolling currents, glaciers, redwoods, bats, meadows, and yawning bears.
When I was 6 my friend and I saw an old gray stump in the nook of the canyon and we believed it to be a wolf staring at us.
We ran home and stared across the meadow with binoculars shaking in tiny hands.
The weathered message of a time before anybody we knew was born, was still there.
Breathing, calling.
I've seen hawks stand on it. It still hasn't moved in 20 years.

I guess you're always right!

Instead of resounding the tasks of an ill labor brought forth in taste,
I will ratify the sweating waters bulbous and forked tongued.
Our gifts were sultry and nothing ever came of them.

May the steps slithered below that empty brow bring you near.
Antiquated because nothing fits or is sought for use precluded by those harmonious swells of your chest.
And we never speak like this,
God has you, you part the encompassed, and all you are is radiant.