Rocks in the Drive

When strings are pulled taut, the cello is tuned,

The wood holds the wine that is seasoned and old.

Dark music poured out and emptied the cask,

And rolled in my goblet, rich, tawny and told

How holiness tastes, how righteousness laughs.

 

You shall be as God, the great dragon had said,

Philosophers argue their shapes in the fire

And each to his shadow tenaciously clings;

They miss that our great father Abram aspired

To a city of solids, celestial marble.

 

But our earthly solids are fleeting, like faerie,

Far closer to ether than what we conceive.

Our granite is balsa, our oceans are floating,

Our atoms are rootless, and we, not believing,

We miss that this world speaks a fortiori.

 

Stop thinking that heaven means standing on clouds.

 

Why falter when told that our God remains good?

Why think the Almighty exhausted in sadness

His strength on the Alps or the plains of Dakota?

Will He not speak solid and substantive gladness

And bid all His people emerge from the shadows?

 

The carpets of heaven are thicker than moss.

With paint on the walls that is glossy to stay.

Hard wood for the tables is grown on the hillsides,

And rocks in the drive are all sapphire gray.

The breezes move curtains that are facing the sea.

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