I am set to pour my early morning
coffee when I note a congealed
shape in the molasses pitcher.
Positioning my grandmother’s
silver spoon, I lift out a small blob –
a creature larger than a gnat, more delicate
than a fly has drowned in my organic molasses.
And since it is Sunday, I am set to thinking
of my soul, and what orgastic pleasures
await the decade of my 70’s.
There was no gluttony here, simply
happening upon the necessity of the body
and losing traction in its fullness.
§And no warmth of touch, no warning,
no scent on the wind which guides
the more evolved fauna among the prey.
There was the lure of tongue toward
the thick richness of life, dark and heavy
I lay me down to sleep
The gilded medieval stasis – mother, child,
tonsured monk – at watch.
The temple of tree, assured stream, pungent
eternal flower gone this very day.
The slur and beat of words,
the grateful silence which sets them whole.
Regard this pentateuch of intimacies:
If it is the ear, praise it!
If it is the eye, bless it!
If it is those more ancient inlets of the soul,
welcome them as they swell your very root.
Be nourished and, thinking creature, abide.