Because it feels like the world is
Spinning either crazy-ass fast,
Or in a wobbling way,
as if it could abandon the sun,
And leave this neighborhood atmosphere,
Drawn by some grass, so chloro-full, it fairly glows,
Because it feels like that,
I find myself taking unusual pleasure every time
I go outside
And pick up sticks camouflaged by dried leaves
Leaves I intended to rake,
Rake before the winter,
Winter, which lasted.
On days like today, when Spring shows up,
And shoots break through,
And sun clicks on,
I am drawn to the sticks in my yard
Like a drummer, long-silenced,
happening upon a room,
where sticks, and surface, and soul
slump in a corner,
hungry for use.
I pick each one up, these sticks, only snapping them in two if one
Tries to compete with my height,
Which I seem to remember hearing is equal
to the breadth of my outstretched arms.
When I deem I have enough,
I walk down the hill to the place that I collect
the sticks that I gather.
And then ascend.
And do it again.
In this repetitive, methodical activity,
Which requires so little brain,
And so much breath,
I feel the Spirit of the Living God,
Like an invisible dancer,
luring me into the sway.
There’s an order to things
Even in chaos.
It is another day of creation.
And it is good.