Minerva, Your Hands Are Brushes
All the runners and bikers,
perverts and
God fearing men, and
Buddhists who are
beyond magic;
all of them gathered
here before the
Sun rises while
I create a myth about
leaves changing
color in autumn and
dead Greek heroes
who spent too much
time comparing themselves
to imaginings and deities
that would just as soon
cast them into the abyss.
Minerva, your hands
are brushes and
paint leaves with
broad strokes.
I grab the earth
and pull her hair
in clumps of dirt,
leaves of grass,
root and branch.
While you hang onto
Hephaestus with
his root in his hand -
quiet sickness- and
your curiosity about
Ares and the muses
and Mother Earth
and gardening as
an art and a vanity.
Answers here!
Submit, then question!
I compare myself to
runners and Gods
and lawyers and
art majors.
I made up a story and
you were inviting me.
I made up a tale where
you planned to
introduce me.
I even got ready.
Deflated, I pick myself
up this morning and
nurse my ignorance.
I cringe and embrace
what I do not know,
wandering away
into tall grass and
rushes by a stream.
I look for starlings and jays
and common birds for
squawking and pecking
at common stuff while
common people run
and pollute uncommon earth
that none chose but I
because common birds
think common bird thoughts
and light on uncommon
branches with uncommon
husks of dropped seed
and evergreen leaves that
don't turn like elm or
my father's hair.