is not whether or even how but
where best
we are shriven
with the essence
of souls, of hearts
we have earned to deserve.
You want to feel it like
a sprinkle of superfine sugar,
licking it from your hands, your arms,
but it will come more sweetly
in the woods where nothing
escapes God's notice
no not for an inkling
of time or fellatio
or even for the price
of a bargain
at George Washington's best white sale.
In our time
herein on Earth
will we notice how the sparkles
of creation can
siftle through bare branches
and sensuously budding
leavings of lowdwellers
to become say a cell in the body
containing everything someone else was
or will be
if we are open to that kind of berthing?
The question of belief
becomes the essence
of what you crave,
proof, if you need it,
dropping into hair
or onto skin
like glitter,
or onto clothing
without notice,
to make its quiet way
into forever,
catching one by the hair or
glazing one's arms or legs leafily,
gouging the skin
with a perfectly-placed
briar of pain,
diving through a pore
unknowing, unseeingly
seemingly beyond our ken.
[+]
Nancy Lewis is an award-winning journalist,
award-winning poet and college professor
currently residing in Falls Village, CT.
