| Some did not want to alter the design when the failure message said massive problem with oxygen. Some wanted to live full tilt with risk. By then we were too weak for daily chores: feeding chickens, hoeing yams, calibrating pH this and N2 that . . . felt like halfway summiting Everest. We didn’t expect the honeybees to die. Glass blocked the long-wave light that guides them. Farm soil too rich in microbes concrete too fresh ate the oxygen. We had pressure problems, recalibrating the sniffer. Bone tired I reread Aristotle by waning light. Being is either actual or potential. The actual is prior to substance. Man prior to boy, human prior to seed, Hermes prior to chisel hitting wood. I leafed through Turner’s England, left the book open at Stonehenge. A shepherd struck by lightning lies dead, dog howling, several sheep down too. The painter gave gigantic proportion to sulphurous god rimmed clouds lightning slashing indigo sky while close at hand lie fallen stones dead religion, pages dusty brown leaf shards gathering in the gutter yet I cannot turn the page wondering what I am and when in the story of life my life is taking place. Now what. No shepherd. No cathedral. How is it then that I read love in pages that lie open before me? Copyright © 2015 by Alison Hawthorne Deming. Used with permission of the author. |
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