Bog People

I’ll laugh with you, no
matter the insult;
one comes to the heart
through disdain. Now throw
your hand down the hole
and get it bitten,
the porous rock hides
a season of growth
within.
Some will say
one grain of knowledge
can be sufficient,
but I am always
choking on the years
of dust. No, I say,
nurture what remains
impenetrable;
spread yourself over
this stone of an earth,
soften to its ways.
The melting butter
of your sacrifice
will enrich the deep
corners of the mind,
rendering the gods
all but toast. Be moss
on their old statues.

They say whatever
sits too long becomes
stale, but it depends
on what you’re making:
take the bog people.
If the cauldron’s not
boiling, you’ll find mold,
but if you are not
cooking, why bother
Preserving it? Scrape
off what grows, dreams won’t
fill your belly. ‘Too
much’ and ‘too little’
are just opinions,
timely facts, never
trustworthy, and yet
they seem to even
out ability.

A transformation
comes when all you have
gathered no longer
dreams it is alone.
It swings its arms just
enough that your foot
falls without effort,
that between heart-beat
and press of the hand,
a respiration
and blink of an eye,
thrives understanding.
In this universe
we live one version
of pause and motion;
the brightness it brings
to the world is one
of nourishment. Come
with an empty hand
just before the sun
breaks through, live on wind
blowing, rain falling.