Thursday, January 1, 2015

Let My People Go.


I am so interested
by the movement
of the planets.

Even though we can’t feel it,
our little earth
is careening through space
in ceaseless revolutions
around the sun.


Maybe the sun
is like Pharaoh of old,
giving audience
to earth’s incessant imploring
to be let go,
but always hardening its heart
at the last minute,
requiring one more
humiliating year of orbit
and promising that
really,
no-really-I-mean-it,
this is the last one.

Maybe only God’s power
could part the tide
of the sun’s gravitational pull
and let the earth
roll straight through
to the freedom of deep space.

But the earth
may covet freedom rashly.
Space is cold.

And it may overlook
how important
its endless subjugation
actually is
for puny humans
trying to make sense
of their stay
on a little planet
careening through space.

We wouldn't have
days or nights
or seasons
or years
if the earth
weren't willing
to bear its servitude.

It’s okay, Earth,
if Pharaoh never lets you go.
Maybe orbit
isn't so bad.
After all,
we get to celebrate my birthday
every time
that you and the sun
stand in relation to each other
the same way that you did
on the day I was born.

If God parted the sea
and we went forward
to greater things—
the life of a vagabond
in the wilderness of space—
how would I ever know
how old I am?

Who’s to say
we wouldn't wander
in the wilderness
for 40 years?

And since we wouldn't have
years anymore,
who’s to say
that we wouldn't wander
like strangers in a strange land
forever?

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