is not the pope, not the parent, not even the Sun.
There is an hour for thirst.
An hour for dying.
An hour to swing there, unswept, uncut, unfallen.
With the polished, imperfect Midas and Mierdas touch,
the cold experimental glare
or the indented palm gripping the water bucket,
god is
the gardener.
To have a vase home, or be uprooted,
be let live, somewhere unfound in Canada as the firmest tree,
or the pink hydrangea in H-E-B for a Vietnamese family,
mercy is given by one and many.
One and many gods, the gardeners,
give no answers.
Just outcomes. A constant temporary home,
the unknown next home,
the brief relief of settlement.
Of place. Of being
a star fruit tree that barely
survived
a weak winter.
How hopeless.
How fruitful.
How dependent.
How thirsty.
With the bare memory of your existence,
or the full need for your survival,
mercy is not hope, not love,
not even peace.
Mercy is relief
and where god
is the gardener.
No comments:
Post a Comment