a poem

The bluebirds sings in glee harmony,

For the spirit that is churching to the willowy thing,

In the heart that’s in yearning for the sound of the speed,

In the love that is never settling into a heap of a tree,

The trees that are bellowing we’re not a heap of anything,

And the foxes that are rattling we’ll chase the squirrels tail ‘till 3:00,

With the heart of a boulder facing out over Jerusalem,

Over the life that is rattling a diamond out a lightning ring, the ringing that spins,

And the hill that never ends, in the life that goes up a thousand steers,

To the love that’s up there. On the way way up the hill,

To the sound of Sisyphus rattling and clinging,

And the way down profitable, end the margins never bringing,

With the heart that is yearning for the life that is steering,

On the way the breads tolling in the sound of the children yawning,

In the mountains of cash registers playing Christmas bells carols,

To the life that’s never ending. All in the fate of a child,

To a love that is unraveling. To the life of the Reaper.

Never settling. For anything less than the love of you,

His children that He is nourishing tenderly.

by Ben Bussewitz