The Birth

“Who needs a God?”
the angel said
and from the womb
I duly sped.

In a cave
I once explored,
into my grasp
there came a sword

or so I wrote.
The midwife stared.
I never saw
her look so scared.

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Waiting

The bird that clings to the branch
in the crashing of the wind and rain,
dreams of no other life,
prays to no imagined god,
but waits for the sun the clouds
daily lay for her.

Alone, orphaned from the egg,
she seeks no solace, or complains.
She is not sad for she is free
of the lust for happiness.
No rights protect her. No duty
binds her to another’s will.

She does not resent the storm,
builds no paranoia from the raindrops.
Water is not a punishment to her,
just as the rainbow, now,
is not the sign of her redemption.
She is a bird and it’s time to feed.

The Immanence

If everything was white:
the stars, the sky, the looming trees
and all the beasts and all the bees,

and every building white as these,
then there would still be names for them,
a word for each of these,

but there would be no word for white;
A universal shade, invisible in tone:
Far too evident to be known.