Like The Roses of Winter

Things haven’t changed much

Since

The infant crawl

Of upright man

Despite all those

Wires

That live like

Snakes 

beneath 

the burrow

Of our standing desks

Our needs remain simple.

We still seek shelter

And warmth in 

our cave dweller houses

And in the fire

Of someone’s eyes.

We still depend on 

The wheel

And stare at the art

 on our walls

That reveal 

Our repurposed 

exploits

And the secret surplus  of our overstocked

hearts

We still hunt for meat

In the frozen wilds of the

Piggly Wiggly

And work for companies

Many of which

Are dinosaurs

And practically extinct

We still observe our rituals

And  weave  stories of faith

About the origins of moon

And yearn for the lights

Of the starry, starry night

That, like our merciful parents

Never leave us.

Whether we can see them

Or not.

And we still weep 

At the abracadabra of birth,

And try to bribe the future

In search of leniency

And howl 

like lost wolf pups

When people

Disappear

Like roses in winter

And we still 

dance

Like the merriment of hobbits

To the music of the earth 

That is the splatter symphony of  rain

And the 

soft-cotton landing

Of snowflakes

And the errant wind that guides

Tomorrow to

Somewhere far beyond 

 the slippery edge of

The flat earth 

Which remains 

To this day

Nothing more than

The absolute limits

of our mortal imagination.

And we still 

Need to congregate

On the weekend

At the Pagan Church of 

The PerpetuallyUnanswered Questions

Which gives us the freedom to

Idolize mystery

Which in turn

compels us

To hold hands

And hold each other up

As we accept all the 

Little that we will ever know

And the simple truth

That the only devices that

We need

Are each

Other.