by Richard Marshack
There are gods among us. In the weeds and mud of a vacant lot there is a god.
In the bubbling coo of a pigeon dancing in circles before its mate there is a god.
In the sheets of wind-blown rain that reflect the redyellowgreen of a traffic light at one o'clock in the morning there is a god.
There are gods in the lilacs and daffodils in the spring. And in the roses and marigolds of summer. And the orange and crimson leaves of autumn each hold their own god.
Children are gods who have forgotten what they are, and old people are gods who are just beginning to remember.
The moan of a woman at the time of passion is the voice of a god. Birth is a god, and life, and pain, and joy.
Hope, anguish, loneliness, bitterness, all gods.
Love and hate are the same god, but indifference is its own god.
The snows of winter? Myriad gods. Each band of the rainbow, a god.
When my shoes squeak, it's a god.
When my stomach rumbles, another god.
Across unbridged voids, on uncounted worlds circling stars without end. Wherever a sign of life, however insignificant and brief, dares to proclaim its Thermopolae, there, too, are gods.
Only one god?
I don't think creation works that cheap.
Richard Marshack: Born 1942/Chicago. Raised in southern Illinois. College off and on throughout life -- no degree. Three years Army. Married 33 years. Likes animals. Likes machines that go fast. Reads history books in spare time. Hates politics, bureaucrats and bigots. Doesn't shave every day. Reads poetry in public. Writing is not a job. It is a way of life. Believes that Murphy was an optimist.
