Trust Truths
A root trusts enough to send up a tender shoot
with no questions to the sun, nor does it ask
for promises. Perhaps the unfurling
from hard soil is enough.
A stream does not ask for permission
to traverse wide plains or crash
through stone canyons, or request
the first tender kiss of mouth
before it crashes into the body of the lake.
A desert does not resist the sift and sigh
of wind that moves it boundaries
in to areas of oases for, perhaps,
it has had enough dry days.
A man did not give assent for descent
into a life that makes false pretenses
about how lovely it is here, and heaven
is not about sitting on silver-lined clouds
nor being dipped in water before
you could barely breathe, nor that last word
on your last breath might not be heard.
A woman did not ask for breasts that bloomed,
nor did she spilt the sky open with a fist
in a hurry to have a belly full of brooding
that will spy greener grass on futherest hills
that might not have a path
that will urge and lead a return.
It simply is as it is. Some things are too holy
to hold court over. A root can die
within the safety of gravel. Water can pool
to become a stagnant crawling bog. Dunes
can pile themselves higher and get hotter,
and drier, in its heights. Man will live or did
with trust issues clenched in his boney hands.
A woman can die milkless and alone
in a basement suite, with a cat and a dog
and a wombful of wishes.
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