Myths

Not following the NaPoWriMo suggestion today. Something more topical.

Photo©Art Anderson

And will the world keep turning on its endless round,

the stars still hang with frigid smiles

in the icy wastes of space?

Will the trees still leaf in spring,

the vines unfurl their complicated leaves,

and the blackbirds fill the hedge with song?

Will you still love me

and tell me I am all that ever mattered and ever will,

and let me tuck in collars,

snip off trailing threads

and point out the bristle missed shaving?

Will wars stop or start,

armies advance or retreat,

the dead come back,

and the babies never born still fill our thoughts?

Would anything in this endless, infinitely varied universe

change one iota,

if they, stumbling upon a desert tomb,

beneath an olive grove and the dry whistling of sand,

fingers trembling with emotion,

should peel back the shroud,

and find beneath the crumbling linen,

the body of their God?