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.