To Those Who Still Keep Faith
That child looking straight up, calling, calling,
though sky has no ears. Others believe
old repeating theologies of fear, prayer.
But this universe thirsts for godless repetitions,
even here, in this swamp thronged by frogsong,
in wounded fog pierced by sun shafts—
one step, twigs crack. Sound stops.
Down here, this universe listens: a red-wing
blackbird hops to another reed—the conductor
in his black suit swaying at the podium
as the atonal orchestra tunes up.
When something shakes old logs termites knock
their heads on chamber walls, warning each other
again, again. We know this repetition, ‘like banging
heads against a brick wall,’ when our country’s left
to rot; when we live in what we consume one way
or another; live near or far from each other, shaken,
as if our flag was ripped in half by strangers.
There is no voice in the wind. There are trees
newly planted. Some bees. We fret and rage
about uncertain things, sometimes afraid. There are
children, full of syllables, who don’t say. Not yet.
David Giannini’s most recent books include The Future Only Rattles When You Pick It Up; In a Moment We May Be Strangely Blended, and Mayhap ( Dos Madres Press 2018; 2019;) His Viral Packet, mostly prosepoem responses to the Covid-19 pandemic, was published by New Feral Press in May, 2020. He received a 2020 James Hearst Finalist Award from The North American Poetry Review. He lives in Berkshire County, Massachusetts.