Laced the Seedling

Laced the Seedling

(“Therefore see, the days are coming—oracle of the Lord—when I will punish her idols, and throughout the land the wounded will groan.” Jeremiah 51:52)

I.

Once upon the lush hills that faced the setting sun
a seedling bent toward the rays, a child of the forest began
its slow ascent toward heaven.

Barely wide as a finger, it poked through mud and loam;
a tiny firstling, a life unnoticed cast a late shade uphill until,
twice its present height, the shadow prophesied the future reach
of imperceptions rising.

Yawns broke through the evening, the fawns scratched against its skin,
cells begat cells, cambium begat xylem, and roots grabbed the earth deeper
than day. Richer than the bare-skinned plains and slower than the
willows along the river banks,
contentment defines the stretch into spring again and again. The
same buck elks sojourn in the same bright silk sauterne
left by the sun nearly every afternoon. The damp smells
of hopeful and fills the air with home.

II.

It goes without saying that everything is worth buying at
one time or another in its purest state or chemical imbalance.
It is worth noticing that the groves are sometimes replanted,
and old trees kiss the seedlings goodbye before the felling.
Lumber homes and wood-burning stoves, well-polished buffets
and antique displays of frontier tables and New England gables;
every grain is turned, captured, sweated and pressed into
human displays of utility and beauty.

Little league broken bats and perfectly bent bows, the arrows
honestly honed, and the bats truly turned so in the hands of
experts and novices their sweet spots find the mark.

And perhaps a few cells thick, after baths and interment,
the factories turn out the sheets for the next page-turner’s
printing. Inky symbols grooved upon the tree-skin
give directions, pain infections, start reflections,
end dissertations, begin palpitations and true/false,
the sweet deceit sways many once the ink has dried.

III.

Begun unaided, we bound the pages of what began
in the lazy forests unnoticed by man. “God has spoken,
chapter and verse; I’ve memorized each passage, rehearsed
and rehearsed.”
And yet, when thought is applied to the paint that has dried,
we might discover some have been reversed.

Oh, not God’s own Words (the truer than we know)
but our cut and paste, our personal parfait to please our
personal tastes.

There is One who sung the seed to life, who laced the seedling
like a violin string, and set it singing the forest’s song of
creation. Never rehearsing, the chorus rises from sky-warmed
patches of round and swirls between branches,
circles and dances in patterns invented by heavenly joy.

And those who beheld it suddenly knew the Laws
and Commandments are not letters and dictation. Somehow
the sweetest song ever heard resounded undisturbed;
flexible and true were never antonymous,
and Heavenly Words are best understood by those
who hear music in the desert, new tunes on the pavement,
cantatas in cathedrals and the best lyrics among the poor.