Talking to God on the Seventh Day -- Ruth L. Schwartz

Talking to God on the Seventh Day

 

You're not so sure about this world?
Listen.  Take another look:

 

the joyful reckless
barking dogs, convinced of doom, hysterical,
or only proud to own the yard,
the block, the wind --
the raised welt of their voices
roughening your dreams.

 

The new leaves slightly bent, like
fingers on guitar,
rippling their chord of twigs --
and the still-bare
slingshot branches,
naked as the tails of rats,
liminal as roots.

 

The squirrel crushed in the road,
its tail still
waving, in the wind of
passing cars, a flag,
and the blackest of black crows,
breaching the body
with its surgeon beak --

 

black needles of its feet so pleased
with death,
which is also meat, and life.
Another squirrel, its rapid jaws

 

muttering around a nut:
My number not up yet not yet bub not yet --

 

Now tell me why you ever thought
you could improve on this

 

music, this hunger.

 

~ Ruth L. Schwartz ~