On a day like today
tell me not to believe
in Heaven
and I’ll find it easier
to write Sanskrit
on a grain of rice;
call this natural selection,
a ballet of cells
that choreographed itself,
nerves and love and blood
spit out of
an ancient sea,
and I’ll call that blind faith.
Today my soul
is a swarm of bees,
the color of the leaves
screaming to their deaths,
and it understands the forest
aging gracefully before my eyes--
trees soon to be startled nudes
flowing like ink in the rain.
But today . . .
today is what God
worked so hard for--
to see someone
crawl into this moment
and want it
with all they have in them,
the way a deer puts its soul
into flight from the hunter,
the way a hunter flings
its soul at the deer,
to be uncivilized, brazen,
and not look back,
to be an audience
like the sky,
yet microscopic
as a lifetime,
to praise . . .
© Patricia Joan Jones
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