TEAKETTLE MEDITATION
Silver crescent sliver
smiles sideways at sunset.
The wind could sweep me up to the top of that maple.
Oh, St. Francis,
if I were Catholic,
my dog would hear my sermon.
Whine, teakettle, wail on.
Show September crickets,
that’s/it’s your voice cadencing moon across sky.
It is said that a shaman can become intoxicated from a glass of water.
Farming a dusty patch of Virginia land,
it only takes one drop
and I’m ready to speak in tongues,
ride holy spirit through fire,
talk theology with rattlesnake.
No revelation, only repetition,
I resign myself instead
to the rhythm of pulling and washing the dirt
off beets in the predawn light.
Not gonna lie,
I want God.
Instead, I settle for a customer
willing to pay the price
for what my hustle squeezes
out of the land.
