I sleep late with my certainty
on Sunday morning, letting the
day break the spell of darkness
like it always has; subtly at first
and then revealing the full
nature of our spinning.
I have learned to keep
the necessary things that prove
their place in the universe;
that show their accidental
designs in their morbid
architecture – free of ghosts,
or gods breaking laws
of the reality I am forced
to live and learn of.
Magic insults my mind,
my heart, the coffee in my cup,
the steam that makes its
presence known in sunlight.
I have no use for lines
and lies and lore
written in the darkness
of our early fears,
luring us from learning
done against the liturgy
that strives to steal the
wonder woven from letters
and numbers unwilling to bow
or break before superstition.
I believe in the seasons of the year
and the stretch of a day;
the length of shadows
extending further and becoming
less descriptive of their casters.
My garden has taught me
everything I need to know
of caring and kindness.
My aging face reminds me
I am just a metaphor
and that I must rest,
for I have worked all week
proving gravity and love.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.
Maybe you’re just being too hard on the world.