The Clueless Poet

They dance. They tantalize. They titillate the upper reaches of my mind, where marvelous and airy things assemble just to mock my consciousness as if to throw an acorn down and laugh to see if I respond to just a minimum of suffering—if I might justify a proper bit of indignation when reflecting on this curious act of God. Why won't they go away? The heavy clouds move in; I must account for them by bringing in the thurifer to solemnize a creativity that even God cares not to understand. He merely breathes with me the sweetness of this soft elusive art made solely from the airy things that I too often fail to bless, but there they are, cast from that swinging thurible, acorns less tangible, but in their burning passion there to purify the air and just above mortality to make it holy, dark and fair. The sanctuary where ideas stay lies hidden still behind the smoke as if to say that mystery has empty hands, no gift at all but for the airy things that tantalize here in the sky to make us wonder, flinging acorns, hiding in the clouds, laughing, sobbing, singing heartsongs at us as we scribe the news of all we are, and all we wish to be. ~