theseeker

Easter, 1976,
          and my Grandmother painted a branch silver,
                      stood it in plaster of Paris,
                      and hung dimes from each branchlet.
                                 "It's a dime tree," she said as she gave it to me.
It jingled musically, and shone,
          and in the seclusion of the closet,
          Tammy and I elevated it to God status,
                                 the central figure in our own mystery cult.
A week later,
          the dimes spent on chocolate and gum,
          the naked silver branch had lost its splendor,
                      and the Faith died.
Apparently, I was meant to be neither Yuppie nor Dryad.

There was a manhole cover in the grass in front of our apartment,
          and with your ear to it,
          you could hear the water running underneath.
                      I knew it was water, but we called it Isis.

Christmas that same year,
          I cried when we passed the roadside Pyramids -
                      the ones the DPW keeps sand
                      and salt in for winter roads.
                                 I thought they were ancient wonders.

In the spring of '90
          I talked myself into believing in Jesus on an airplane
          mainly because I was in love with a minister.

Now that my head is out of the clouds and my feet are back on terra firma,
          I still call myself a Seeker,