June 14, 2013 § 5 Comments
Or checking its face in the mirror, first for pimples, then for wrinkles, with about a week of grace in between.
Or holding up its out-of-work, out-of-luck signs, or driving past those signs staring straight ahead.
Or leaning always toward the future, but being perpetually taken by surprise when it arrives.
Humanity, I love you, one, by one, by one, but I often want to apologize to the earth and every living thing on it for your collective sloppy careless voracious ways, your myopic selfishness, your smug certainty that you are the crown of creation.
Sometimes, humanity, I want to pick you up in my arms and carry you; I can tell you need a rest.
Or take you by the shoulders and turn you away from whatever screen you are staring at and toward the buzzing, breathing, living world and say, look!
Or whisper in your ear, “You’ll be all right.”
Sometimes you make me proud: you stand in front of the tyrant’s advancing tank, or share when you have barely enough, you write a symphony, or turn a flour sack into a first-day-of-school dress. Pure gold for a moment; you quickly become lead again.
Sometimes I want to fly, free of the terrible persistence of self that comes automatically with club membership and blinds every one of us, but all I can do is stand on the ground and look up.
I bet the air is sweet up there.