I made this world

as I moved around it

above and below

and of late

within

and also that one over

there the same

but different, has

deeper colored

storms

that sweep away the

remnants of my hand

only to

as in all these worlds in

time regenerate my legacy

each spin

a new brood of

my spiral

 

All these worlds

are stamped like this with

my and your

imprint and

no matter how we doll

them up

they will be insufferable

places

if we forget that

abandoning what one

makes is simply

indecent

 

The trumpet sounds

recede into the

distant rumbling of

souls stirring

and the colors

change in

all these worlds and

it is all so beautiful

 

The mother loves the child

and the planter her crop and

so love and all that it is

the hope and the desperation and

the work and the joy

beckons the power of

the winds in all these worlds

that push the storms

that must come the

quake and the tsunami and

the flood and then

the regeneration on

soils so ravaged that

they are suddenly desperate

to grow things

that are wild and free

like sunflowers

tall grasses and

trees, like children

summering by

the sea, like unrelenting

compassion

liberality and

peace

 

-Danny Grosso