i look to the god of my fears, and i
do not bow, because
that god is too small to have created
the giant yew, or the stars
or the galaxies of microbes that populate
a single stomach, the worlds within
worlds, the forest floor alive with neural
networks of plant and protozoa,
mycelium and mushroom, the earthwork
of veins shot through everything alive,
life within life, turned toward salubrious sun
or hiding in tender cave, waiting
for long night and birth and the soft caress
of an affectionate moon. that god
could not make bat or bird, dolphin and whale;
it could not build a sky that could stand
or clouds that kiss both sea and land. that god,
of fear, cannot build or save, only
lead astray
it cannot hold
the form of
words
much less the world; it has no place.
that god must go, without delay
and see the rivers and the lakes, the
beaver and its berm, the rocks
that sing, the silky streams, to hear
the heron scream with glee, and
feel pine needles under feet, or
mud against its knees, the lovely sting
of fruit on tongue and cheek; the ducks
that fly as one, or dust on breeze,
faded flowers filled with drunken bees;
any god i love must be a god
whose fullness
is full of these.
for fear cannot build
or reap
or sow
or truly love
it does not truly know
what love can be
it does not see the world
it does not see
the tender veins in a leaf
the gentle weave
of a spider’s nest
the dance of ants
the gift of seas
from which we rose those years ago
to rub our guts on sand and dirt, to
breathe the air that burned, and
push our legs against the pull, to stand and
look and yearn for land and home, to see
the stars and force our hearts
not to race;
fear must fade
(fear must fade)
because the sky is only larger
than the oceans
when you believe them opposed
instead of part of a whole
to which you belong
and which belongs to you.
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