Nature alone, apart from the Great Love,
is not kind. She can be abundant…
of this there is no doubt. I presently live
amongst her ample bounty here in Greece
where pears are dropping off trees onto the stone
streets, but this is not so
for many black skinned brothers and sisters
in Africa who are currently suckling bloated children
on dry breasts and sit on burning stones
staring at the burning sky.
There are many places where the human body
is mere mosquito food,
the human eye just a glistening fountain
from which flies drink.
Nature is not a kind mother, but wildly neurotic:
for she can softly coo to us of sublime beauty
in the golden light
which she splashes over our skin
when she disrobes for night,
or as she silently rolls from starry dark
into the yellow blaze of day;
and then turn and drown us in an angry river,
or burn us with a blazing mountain,
or beat us down with hail.
She gave us our body, and she will take it back,
turning it into slime, into a fecund mass
that slowly drips from its eye holes and bones.
I love Nature, though she has almost drowned me
in wild seas, almost fried me with lightning,
almost swept me away in the brown froth
of violent rivers.
If I did not sense some higher nature
coming through myself to love her
into kindness, to gentle her down,
would I love her truly?
I see many of her symbols:
the broken seed, the worm and its wings,
the fruitful trees that drink from dark roots
even as they lightly scratch the face of sky.
And yet, apart from the young Life of God
moving through to open me
I would not learn faith from her,
but the cynical despair so prevalent
within the darker circle of her rough arms.
Pages: Visual Poems and Wisdom
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