You’ll want to know if I believe
in miracles, ghosts, and horoscopes.
I’ll tell you this: I believe in the
seasons, the colorful passage of time.
Annually, wildflowers and wild creatures
appear to come back from the dead,
though they’ve only been resting
underground, or maybe underwater;
or some birds, like turkey vultures
and robins, have flown to sunlit lands
across the sea or the great plains.
Like the soul does, when it’s done
with its body, if you want to believe
in that. When my grandmother died
I cried to see her go, but
the black-eyed Susan grows up
every year, crowding unmowed
roadside grass. She taught me
the name of those flowers and
many others, so couldn’t it be said
she annually returns, and nods her head
at me as I drive to work or home
from some misadventure?
Listen, disregard the careless advice
of newspaper astrologists and television
ministers. I believe everything the Earth
provides is only semi-permanent, and
put my faith in the seasons, and worship
periodically the snow and thunderstorm,
cicadas emerging, maple trees dropping
their keys in lawns, turkey vultures soaring
over stone quarries and milkweed crowding
highway embankments. Nature itself
provides daily and recurring miracles.
Let’s thank every wild god for them.
[Check out Michael Kockinski's back porch advice]