You’re in a hospital bed and you can’t write. 
Your lung collapsed; they are trying to inflate it.
You are thankful for the gift of two.

You can’t write under the muse of sluggishness.
They are trying to reflate it;  the dreams come 
whispering from all parts of the world.

Under the muse of sluggishness,
the way you blow up balloons, dreams
whispering from all the world—peace collapsed.

Your friends march, give up, keep vigil.
You give thanks for the gift of two—glittering eyes, 
fingers raised in peace, wings over the cathedral.

Glittering butterfly wings, hands in the cathedral
streets black, balloons filled with smoke, 
so much work, so little time to be agnostic.

Streets black with agnostic smoke
each day you learn the deep lore of the earth 
so little time for peace, for the foundations.

The deep lore of each day, a bowl full of meaning 
so much work, the way people leave their gifts 
for the lost, for the smoke in the cathedral.

If meaning has a shape you are looking for a bowl.
One bare foot on smooth stone, one in dirt 
leaving prints everywhere, staying on this earth.


© 2007 by Mary Kay Rummel. All rights reserved.