I weary of worthless words
in a discount world
intent upon commodifying all.
Slogans, op-eds, even sermons
weave words into ads
for Wall Street, their maker god,
trying to capture and sell us like slaves.
Meanwhile, Light reveals
beauty resting silent all around—
in that certain slant of sun
through the early morning window
providing a pad for stretching cat
with tips of fur afire;
in the way our beloved’s face shines
with delight when we enter a room;
when the baby’s insistent wails
dissolve into giggling smiles;
when sunflowers someone planted
by the interstate long ago
stand at attention
saluting the One who bids them rise
and live into their name.
The spider sits in her glistening web
broadcasting intricacies of connection.
Wind rustles through birches,
as birds sing out praise
over katydid drone
and children squeal in distant games.
Here is life’s true background
in which we live and move and have our being.
Yet we choose to foreground
incessant squawks
of artificial TV hawks
greased by Oxy-Clean ads
convincing us that we need more light.
No wonder
no bushes blaze for anyone anymore
beneath this sacred canopy
scorched by the profane hole in its ozone layer.
We extinguish true prophets for profits,
leaving them to kill themselves
out of despair
underneath Cedar-O broom trees,
forgetting that angels of light come
with comfort food made by hands of love
that cradle all in robust songs of praise.