The artistry of the Creator
is that he makes music
from heat and blowing sand.
Wind swirls and raises a dust cloud.
The cloud shapes a vortex and a man.
The vortex is this man.
Here is the mystery:
one particle bumps into another;
a wave makes like a wave, and...
Presto!
The heart is beating wildly,
drunk on its own happiness!
Music comes from everywhere!
The feet are just tapping until the whole body moves.
Am I more complex than this?
There must be something I don't see--
body, soundwaves, exuberance--no,
that's everything.
But there is also a nothing.
Could I forget You?
Our circling draws life in,
carves out a space in which to exist--
breathlessly.
Humility is that mysterious space.
God--not here, not absent--is the offbeat
when we don't clap but anticipate clapping.
Before kissing, eye contact.
Anyone can throw paint around;
what's uncovered in each brushstroke?
We want to do our work and receive the praise.
A transaction. A gaudy plastic toy for twenty-five cents.
You are the stillpoint
I spin around.
It's not me you complement,
complementing me so well.
If you were not here to dance with,
where would I be?
Sitting on a store shelf, blown glasswork
waiting for the morning sun and a child passing by,
pressing fingers against the window,
enraptured with a bit of colored glass.
Sometimes we sing this song--
wait, that's not right--
we are always singing.
The sun doesn't wait for the light of a new day;
this spinning brings us joy
and the hope of new joy.
Copyright 2007 Todd Mertz