Is the divine then
In the gray snow bank
In the dead weeds
Of the railroad side?
Rhetorical question
Rhetorical question
In the questioning face
Of the poor man
Hands in his pockets
Hunched against the cold
Hunched against the cold?
Rhetorical question
Soul knows the cold
Soul knows the seasons
Soul knows the questions
Soul knows the rhetoric
That gnaws itself away
Rhetorical question
Old snow
Dead weeds
Poor man
No fences
No question
1 comment:
No question
What? No question! How can there ever be an absence of questions? This minute is different from the one before or the next one coming up - now. Surely each New Now opens itself to questions.
But that itself begs the ... you know. A quest for reply becomes "rhetorical" only when the asker suddenly doesn't want to hear the answer. No wait - don't tell me. I fear the possibility of light and even this glimpse of enlightenment. So, no - no. Be silent. I prefer myself to be blank.
I don't want to see The Me morph into the sooty snow bank, the dead weed or old body - used up, displeasing to the eye and the grandest of our senses. I won't ever be unsightly and slightly soiled. That is if you don't tell me I will.
So you choose not, then, to see the remembered joy of the snow bank stil hearing the trill of the child making snow balls. Or the weed, far from a pest, which openly offered the succulent spring greens and glorious sun-of-a-blossom. Perhaps they and the old one have joy and fulfillment coursing through their various veins.
Say not "rhetorical." Don't ask if you choose not to know ...
Post a Comment