And God did so heap upon his Gifts unto Adam and Adam did become so burdened with Abundance, he sought shade from the light and did sink his teeth into nothing, of his own creation, and loved himself as creator, like God, and staked out a portion of Eden, calling himself exile, and only gave unto himself of his own hand, and wove a second skin to cover up, with shame, that his first was a gift, and when he thought of creator, he confused himself with God, and how did God love his own creation, calling it good.
Those times, down in the mouth, moping around, the sun, unabashed magnificence, glory-bound, bouquet spread over clouds and water-ways, transfixes and, but how, with all my shambles, it shines on me.
Despite the horror — sequestered within — I feel the sun beneath dead skin; I see light beyond scaled lids; and press and press, with primordial wings, to lose this exoskeleton.
God, you were the one to fear — the one cause worth sacrificing for. What do you mean? “It’s all in your hands.” What are you saying? “You wish for my fulfillment.” For what use, my sacrifices? You don’t want me to sacrifice at all. You’ve ruined all my plans. You’ve stollen my thunder. Oh, and it is so embarrassing when you anoint my crown and stick the well-prepared fattened calf under my nose and lord it up with everyone. You raining sunlight on the just and the unjust. You don’t understand. You are out of control.
We grow own sorrow or joy; the greatest joy is we grow our own.
At wit’s end, wisdom was my only friend. Difficult, heavy, I clung to it as it pulled me through the water, sea waves endlessly crashing into my face. Now I pick up little pieces and hide them under my pillow, undeposited. I dream of the day when I trade it all in for a ticket out of here — out from under the city into the sunlight, walk into the country to find the home I never knew: wisdom light as a smile.
At the forest’s edge the sky is half stars, half a fête of fireflies. I tread step-by-step into the darkness and there is silent celebration. A glow streaks beside me as high in the branches pulse living lights. At the darkest spot, I stop and gaze; the path opens to the sky; layers of trees quietly host spectacle.
I have not found peace, but I have glimpsed it in the happy eye of a dog on a walk, trotting, panting in step with step after a mad scramble after a fleeting rabbit or chasing a squirrel up a tree and at home darting beneath slumbering lids, chasing dreams.
It is cruel and embarrassing to have an asteroid strike my beauty; my ecosystems are invaded and disrupted with the havoc and the gash. When my volcanoes erupt, my people chastise my self-inflicted violence. They narrow their eyes at my fickle nature; they question my bountifulness. In fear, some look to the moon and the craters and despair, but I am earth; I am shrouded in miracle: patient, folding old skin within to be rekindled into new, canvasing barren landscapes with humble grass, and flowers, soon.
I fancy myself a fine craftsman with fortitude enough for a mansion, someone who adorns, with gold filigree, the polished, stained pine and keeps each room appointed, waiting for the assessor’s gaze. Had I known it was my home I was crafting, I would have squatted upon a pond and been someone who has enough fire and just enough wood to live.