It came to me as a gift
a found object
found lying in the street
a miniature globe wrought of brass and silver
and the surface spoke of time and use
As I turned it slowly in the failing light
there came the softest chime.
a faint insectile jingle-jangle from inside
as if tiny angels sought to escape a tiny hell,
and I fought an urge to hammer them free.
If I could pluck the weeds from my mind,
and let you grow there instead
I promise, with the blind,
heartfelt promise of a child
to water you
and care for you
or cry when I realize you've died.
I've often thought on the nature of faith
Of gods and reasons and destiny's ways
But all the thinking stops somehow
when you put that little white coffin
in the ground
And all your faith is buried with it