Lord of worn stone cliffs and the guileless trill
of the canyon wren; Lord of stunted hemlocks,
imperiled mussels, seeds that fall on shallow soil;
Lord of boreal forests, of the fragile
nitrogen cycle, of vanishing aquifers, spreading
deserts; Lord of neglect and carelessness,
of greed and depletion, of the doleful cry
of the violin, of the loon; Lord of ruin
and desperate rescue, of remnant, ragtag,
making do, you too must want as fiercely
as we do, your world being almost nothing
but want.
Here, twilight breezes traverse the furrows
to bury all manner of wanton seeds among
our crops; a red-shouldered hawk wheels and
watches; its shadow wheels and is watched;
a harvest moon, drastically magnified, rises—
a deception no science has yet explained,
so much here remains beyond us. For ages,
our kind has studied this earth; we have yet
to discern your purpose. How badly we want
to believe in your good intentions.
For centuries, monks copied scripture in inks
concocted from hawthorn, salts, and wine.
They lived in vigilance, hidden away, recording
your hints and evasions; they died
of their times and a heritable briefness. Today,
no one doubts who owns the heavens:
American drones cross invisibly over
invisible borders; refugees trudge toward
rumors of air drops. Wide-eyed in the dark hours,
we children of plenty labor over our lives,
documenting our days in a light we have found
no way to erase. We want so much not to be
lost sight of. Want, equally, to escape all notice.
Soon every moonrise will be our last. Lord,
whose name is Everlasting, how can you begin
to understand?