alpine baptism

It is a tricky thing to speak truth,

about how things are around here,

and how we wish they could be.

 

The truth about ourselves, of course,

this need, this want, give me Please:

this insatiable appetite that grows

upon which it feeds: Look at me.

 

If we don’t matter on a cosmic level,

perhaps we matter to our neighbor,

perhaps they see us, and applaud while

we sleep and dream of bigger projects.

 

Not to matter, or to create it ex nihilo,

is a daunting indeed for a day’s work,

if all has been said, nothing new found,

and we recycle the master’s quotes,

and attach our life to theirs in hope...

 

‘be grateful for what you have’ they say,

‘don’t let em get you down’, they sing.

 

Beauty everywhere, Grace always on the bound,

the hound of heaven, may have had his fill

some time ago, but mistaking our paws for his,

we scramble on, each of us through the trees.

 

‘there must be spring water somewhere close,

amidst the dead leaves and burned stumps.

My meni in the Alps baptized me last minute,

an emergency procedure only allowed if the

soul of the child is in danger. He must have known,

that thirst would set in and drive me here one day,

would drive me here. Death loves the wind,

when the sky can’t distinguish between dusk and dawn.

And coma and period look more and more alike,