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.