Many think I’m crazy
Am I really?
I merely record moments
and paint punctiliar seasons
like the tree I see here and there,
the one planted along channels of water.
What I feel, I bleed out,
scratched onto thin slices of its innards:
embodied and at peace
in mystery and glorious favor.
There’s more to life than facts and physics,
making math reality.
My systematics are securely obscure,
like millions of pounds of rain,
floating above a desert
and I don’t care when it drops a tear,
or if it ever does
because the dead are raised,
the impious destroyed,
the living reign with us
into the ages of ages;
and there is not a God damn thing anyone can do to change that.