Sunday, December 5, 2010

Poem: Turtle Baby

In Memory of Sean Hughston

Turtle Baby

The turtle that carries home on its back carries the

weight of the world without ever saying a word.

Movement is slow but steady.

A turtle will be a turtle, no

more or no less than a turtle.

The Earth spins on its axis around 1,000 miles per hour,

while revolving around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour.

All those (r)evolutions.

From outer space, city lights emanate,

like glow worms or kindling fire.

God is an astronaut, sailing through the

dust and memory of eternal falling stars.

I am His Judas, Her Mary Magdalene, Sweet Jesus, Ruth, the Israel who was once Jacob.

Little turtle babies leave the sanctity of eggshell, rake

the sand with their little turtle baby flippers, return home.

Moths to the Proxigean flame of the new moon.

Soft shells harden with each successive elliptical rotation of

the Earth around the Sun and the Moon in love with the tide.

We’re all following the path of

a kite lost in the infinite sky.

A yellow balloon ascending as one final salute.

What lies below are the memories of

the living—our only afterlife.