The universe
does most of the footwork and heavy lifting.
I’ve been pretending to be someone for quite sometime now.
What a relief finally
to be no one in particular,
Like the ocean,
Not clinging to shore,
Rushing in and
ebbing out,
the whole in a drop,
a drop in a hole.
Look deep, go wide,
You run, I’ll hide.
I know you didn’t choose all this,
perhaps you’re being played.
Robins don’t design their nests;
it’s just the way they’re made,
wings and beaks,
up at dawn.
Robin born to wing
and song,
worm born to silt
and soil.
How could it be other?
There are happenings that happened,
long before your arrival.
There’s a story and a process,
there’s a way that things that unravel.
And here you be in your youness,
and an other in their they.
What womb, what whale
has spit you up
On a shore you did not choose?
Do you really have a message
Or is the message you?
Player and part
in a comedy
and drama.
‘Who?’ we ask.
‘The Father and I and you and they.’
Fig trees
Juniper trees.
Grumpy prophets,
sackcloth, ashes, and penitent cows.
If the first becomes last, the last is now first,
and the first will be last, then the last will be first,
and so on.
R.A. Wittum, c. 2024
