We concern ourselves with small things
Latecomers to the earth, this model of
Heaven, we make models smaller still.
My soul got into my body, to move around
Earth. Now my body gets into a car.
Many of us put our whole lives into cars,
Building them, fixing them, restoring old ones,
My neighbors yard is beautiful
Greensward lawn about the house
Flowers shrubs and trees lounge
In mulched beds. When she moves on
By economics, inability or death
The weeds will return rapidly. They
Won’t know or care the reason that
Her care was withdrawn. It won’t take a year for her life’s work to be veiled
In a few more, only obfuscated traces
Will remain, followed by oblivion as
The trees who remember the touch
Of her hands follow her to the grave.
To the grave is where we are going
Like Rome, all roads lead there.
Who was it that first sunk
Their thumbs into the muck
In the clayey bank of the river
And baked bricks and built
Temples from them? They knew
Something. Do you know that too?
Or do you sit there with your
Plastic building toy, and build
Models of what other people
Have imagined and made into movies?
The temple is a model of heaven
The brick is a model of a soul
Toys are models of models.
Which we use to make models still.
Everything we find or make is
Matryoshka dolls inside matryoshka dolls.
Their nested versions of themselves
Yet another model. Do you understand
What you are giving to your children?
What do you find important?
What is it that occupies your
Time? What did Covid show you
About necessity? Do you remember how
Deliciously quiet it was on September 12?
Did you even go outside?
Or were you hunkered down in your
Makeshift bunker, allowing fear to pour
Into your mind from the tv/radio?
That tree growing on the hillside
It’s branches reach over me
the earth, the moon. The entire
Universe is sheltered there
Under the living wood. Look
Pinwheel galaxys are spinning there
There under those branches are all the
stars, and planets, and those vast
Spaces between them.
Pluto, Jupiter! Saturn! And there!
And there, on that more of dirt
Are oceans and mountains
( models of vastness)
Deserts, jungles, wilderness
And cities. Look closer, here
Are lives that turn and buzz and hum
With a vascillation between hate and
Love. (Do you hear it?)
And there, on a certain hillside, is me
Standing, my finger in my navel,
Looking at that tree
At once, both small and large,
That tree reveals the illusion
That small and large are different.
The structure of the world is evident
In any piece or part of it. Can you see that?
There is not one bit that is expendable
There is no action without cost (nor inaction). You can sit by the river
It will tell you if you just
In response to the prompt at https://earthweal.com/2020/09/21/earthweal-weekly-challenge-mentors-for-a-changed-world/