Mamma stows a lonesome calvary
underneath her bedtime gown
and reads her boys a well-worn tale of two coonhounds.
As Taylor dulls his claws against the
rigid walls of circumstance,
we learn the laws of nature and their indifference.
But when the inevitable arrives
again; an angel telling you where to find
a respite at the dusty valley floor
where you can rest forever more,
we will not hesitate for a second
to divorce that witch from her weapon.
We are a force with which to reckon.
We are a force with which to reckon.
You will find your temper;
stashed beneath a stone carved in its absence.
And try hard to remember
steps you’ve taken tracing fading footprints.
You will find a reason
for rising tall at dawn to lend your labor
when a changing of the seasons
strikes hunger in the bellies of your neighbors.
And you will find an answer;
a fern atop a grave dug by your brothers
for a dog you lost to cancer
who never got to see his boy recover.
We will find that rhythm;
a beat the men we used to be could march to.
And we’ll learn to forgive them
for losing sight of everything they valued.
For we have all been tortured
by the paltry bit of time we get for living,
and yet failed to see the orchard
for more than merely fruit we’re yearly given.
So if they find a fault line
between the victims and the ones deserving blame
and put you on the wrong side,
we’ll stand there with you when the earth begins to shake.
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