Such a familiar sound.
Black bear digging for pine cones.
The folding of the earth’s crust, no one
was there to show them how to tie a knot or
sew a pelt. Under extreme pressure, the edges
of eons rubbed against each other, the touch of
an earthquake on the elbow and a volcano in
between the toes. Deep trenches keeping us from
seeing each other. An age before teachers.
No one taught them how to fashion wood into tools.
They just did, turning a boar’s shoulder blade into twin
shovels, and a single pig intestine into rafts.
A time before teachers. A snail, so much like Indra’s Net of Jewels.
Have you noticed? It happens for the same reason a bubble is round.
It is a family tree and a secret language. So damp and rotting;
from flatworms to conifers, crustacean siblings emanating
from our limbs. Each morning, like souvenirs of existence. Our thoughts
freezing Time’s relentless melt, leaning towards a biology of God.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, the Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared in the USA Today, Wall Street Journal, the Atlantic, the Havana Times, the South China Morning Post, the Buffalo News, and more.