You are nothing
Just a number.
On a calendar.
Some silly system invented by a
Pagan, somewhere, in a long robe,
Leaning against a dark massive
Stone—atop “Celtic Hill”, a mossy
Drumlin—wondering why the
Sun, so prompt, should be taking so long
This time. A human sacrifice, no doubt,
Waiting in the wings.
Maybe a million years later—
A bishop, in a Gothic cathedral, in France,
Or, if never a Bishop deign stoop so low,
Then a monk, a quiet God-fearing one,
Ascetic little monk-scribe, hunched
Over crinkly parchment, feathers
Dripping black ink, turning
Candle light, to reveal an unsolvable mystery,
Already ancient when it began.
“Outdo that heretic pagan!”
Or it was a scientist.
Or a farmer with a philosophical bent.
Or a milk maid, soft and spent.
Sweet, foolish little existentialist
Milk maid. I’m sure you labored
Over the shortened, silvered days,
Tangled wooly nights, pooling
The oily-gray water of your disillusionment
With being; your heartache with
Obsession with knowing;
your frustration with all those udders!
Into a small, round pool;
The type Children frolic in
On summer days.
Caribbean blue plastic,
And spotted along the bottom
With little green fish—
Shimmering and taunting
As minnows—darting about
Like wonder, or dreams,
What “should be” but is not—
What “could be” if hard-sought—
What “might have been” were all this not
Such a lot
You mean nothing.
(C) 2016 Sanguine Woods