Sharing a Rug
There will come a day when we are heading out to
The woods one last time. It may seem a little brighter,
A tad sharper, a bit more joyful, but it’ll come anyway.
Before he saw the bush burn without being consumed,
Moses killed a man, an evil man. Still, it was murder.
Back in the day, there was no debating capital punishment.
Somewhere near the verge at twilight, the sun and moon
And world poised, just so, we’ll realize our mistake.
We won’t head back; we need to get this right.
Turning a staff into a serpent, the river into blood, causing
A rain of frogs, all of this Pharaoh’s magicians did, too.
Was this a deep truth for Moses or only for us, Friends?
Every day for a month a huge crow sat in the sycamore
Across the way. At first light, the din was monstrous, a call
For death, murder, revenge. Of course, crow also speaks.
Donald, in our lives we must stitch together these stanzas,
Seemingly unrelated, yet vibrant in color, lyrical in tone.
Come, share my rug, drink: let’s sing each other’s songs.
Don Wentworth is a Pittsburgh-based poet whose work reflects his interest in the revelatory nature of brief, haiku-like moments in everyday life. He has been publishing his work in the small press for 4 decades and with 3 full length collections. His first book of ghazals is forthcoming from Low Ghost Press.