3808.SINGING A SPIRITUAL MUSIC

SINGING A 

SPIRITUAL MUSIC

Oh made of steel, oh you are not.

The cauldron at the entrance burns,

and your fury knows no ending  -  I would

never stay to watch. There are chickens

here, scratching at the ground. I sit back

just to see them go. On the wooden

post hangs a sign announcing 'eggs for

sale'. It's all silly and simple, but it

works; people do stop.

-

By the drawbridge, a few carousers

take their stands  -  a lady on a bicycle

stops, a man preens his crummy-looking

dog. Not far off, the river that leads to

Pennsylvania runs its steady way along

the border. Logs and wood float by.

-

I'm steady, and pretty sure of what I know.

I deem appropriate only the things that I

feel matter : the red rope entwined at the

door of the barn; that thirty-year old car,

still left here in the weeds; the hayrick,

now old and sagging on bad springs.

-

Down below all this, in the center

of the world, I know another voice

is singing. It is one I cannot always

hear, but when I do I understand

and heed, and listen for more.

My spirit is a pliant thing.