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What Feeds Us In a sunbeam that wraps the top branch of an ash tree, my God is what feeds its color even through snow and ice. In a spindrift that flakes the seaside canna phasion, hundreds of magnifications of its yellows and reds, he is the quench that reaches to its roots, feeding it from before history. He is the satisfaction of hunger the food brings, and sometimes arrives without it, on wings invisibly landing at my window to sing me to sleep on nights when I’m alone. -- The Long Debate Each moment buries itself, then resurfaces from the skin in a slow spindrift of dust. It’s the reason for wrinkles and wisdom, it’s the way the past plots stepping stones into the future and time is a precarious balance along laundry lines, dividing waste from wonder. The ocean therefore is not a narrative, and between its frolicking peaks, I’m rocked into fields of a lyrical witness, history rolls over glittering in sunlight as it never can during our long marches over hills or on our vacations along the beach where we lounge and grow weary of the sun’s endless, heated arguments. -- Nothing I Do I drew a picture of someone waving and sent it to everyone I know, meaning, “hello.” But it was taken to mean “goodbye.” And that’s the problem with picturing God. The greatest thing I can imagine is a God greater than anything I can imagine. He’s there behind every door, waiting for me to stop and accept the gift. The door won’t open until I do. And nothing I do opens the door. He will never leave or stop waiting and the gift will outlast every gravestone.
Copyright 2019 Michael T. Young
Michael T. Young’s third full-length collection, The Infinite Doctrine of Water, was published by Terrapin Books. He lives with his wife and children in Jersey City, New Jersey.