Just a Pencil

Just a Pencil

(“But I will sing of your power and in the morning I will shout for joy about your gracious love. For you have been a fortress for me; and a refuge when I am distressed.” Psalm 59:16)

The Santa Monica pier is just a pencil
drawing dots and dashes before the swells sweep in.
The first time I saw the ocean I wondered where it would end,
how the graphite waves inked the beach like slate
and why the sand stayed attached just beyond the ribbons
of asphalt.

The planet Venus is just a candid song
mimicking madrigals and goddesses before the show begins.
The first time I saw the green star I wondered why it blinked,
how it hovered and caught my eye so far from my reach
and why it moved in winter skies from house to house
before it dove into the fields of snow.

The Whirlpool Galaxy is just an artist’s rendition
echoing the smaller circles and spirals spun by ballerinas.
The first time I saw the ageless coil I gasped at its audacity,
how toy-like, how yoyo, how hula-hoop it plays
and why it invites my eyes to see further than light
exists above the tiny steps of earth.

The wide mouth words are just bullets
that explode inside the soul of the drowsy.
The first time I heard, crash or whisper, I wondered where it would end,
how the expelled breath became gray arrows
and why they stuck so deep and so long before
the stingy world swung round the sun again.

And we are shot up, shot down, filed away and
underground
until
a voice sounds, rewound, wild arrays of
love unbound
by time or space,
pencils or bullets,
and gently pulls us deeper in
to the Center of song, the Tower of morning
and dance.