04-19-2017, 07:14 AM
Of Stoves and Pots, Of Cans and Can Openers
You would tell me of when
the crickets were silent, and when
the ants had not learned to march.
All of your stories begin too late.
Listen, the sky is always dark when
the world is young. The sun does not
bounce across the sky
like an orange rubber ball.
It has not yet learned to fly.
It sleeps beneath the rocks
and the world above burns.
Your oceans already encircle while
mine lick the edges.
The pot of creation still boils
waiting for the serrated edge of the wheel
to bring forth life.
You would tell me of when
the crickets were silent, and when
the ants had not learned to march.
All of your stories begin too late.
Listen, the sky is always dark when
the world is young. The sun does not
bounce across the sky
like an orange rubber ball.
It has not yet learned to fly.
It sleeps beneath the rocks
and the world above burns.
Your oceans already encircle while
mine lick the edges.
The pot of creation still boils
waiting for the serrated edge of the wheel
to bring forth life.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson