Cigarettes smoke, trail & sway,
& thus we, Mother, we also blow out
across the expanse, the lips.
On the edge, they say, on the edge
is our quadrant, a grove of willows,
the wilderness, the town of block houses
spilling orchids from their windowsills
before the desert, the Dust Bowl,
the tundra only man dares
(or is fool enough)
I say we’ve been there too,
out in the open, exposed to the root.
I say we know the wide oceans breadth,
the fields & factories map-large as a quilt
stitched in plain detail by Grandma Moses,
by Sojourner Truth.
Who knows? Who knows
is an answer, a motto for what the future
may bring. We know by standing, Father,
looking down, looking up at the earth’s
cycles, its resurrective past, its ongoing
That path says:
So, I see you chain smoke, yet also
nurture, cultivate farmland, & observe
the heavens for their proof of mystery.
We too, yes, are evidence.