Saturday, January 28, 2023

When they did it in the warm volcanic dust,
did their juices overflow, drip to make mud?
With semen-soaked soil, did they mark their bodies
to declare to the sky the meaning of it?
Having done it, did they know we did it too,
seeds of our seeing dug into their doing?

Now, who cares to do it for them,
gone into memory and myth?

Is that why this Texas-spring-day,
its huisaches bursting in gold,
its pregnant air kissing our loins,
recalled them from eons ago?
That through their eyes, we would see the world afresh,
as when they rested, warm in each other's arms,
beholding all on their first creation day?

Tom Keene
March 1986