geanealogy...

The human seed

a conscious furze,

a meaty spurge,

that 98.6 degrees

of confusion, wonder

and mayhem is loosed

upon the verdant

and slowly cooling crust.

A tree whose roots

are broken off into ten

abbreviated aching stubs

that get shoved, daily, into shoes;

that angry, beautiful burl of

unanswerable questions

which, fearful, twists the present

into a ghostly figment of the past.

We are blood, bone and bacteria

fleeting manifestations of the

massive blue-green marbled

behemoth rolling thru deep space

just beneath our mortal feet;

dreaming in our baby-minds

we prod and knead blindly

for nourishment at her milky teat.

Branded, bonded and burned

into submission, we hoard

the many other meaty species

into the dank, cheerless

needy basement of our hearts;

to linger from pain to table,

we stab and slice them into bites

for which we pay a psychic price.

Trees have big roots to hold them steady

and yet still they falter, thundering;

deep roots do not feed hungry trees

that fortune lies in what is tender

in a hair-thin network, a compassion

of feeder roots ever probing, seeking,

asking subtle moisture, minerals

and healing nurture from dark soil.

The challenges of this mortal place

are best met by fueling growth with wonder

by living, eyes open, blessed moments

to keep from walking into walls;

by making conscience into science

and forging mercy as our threshold

while keeping time with understanding

and then, being willing to let go...

lucy meskill