The Return of Christ

The morning plays pel-mel on both sides of story-high plate glass. People scurry, scuttle like crabs, sideways, their lives lived on a slant, everything is akimbo, topsy-turvy, but not nearly as comic as the words imply. In fact to look at the faces, mine included, things are dead serious. And there are no connections. Instead, there is a perpetual race at every stop light, walk light, cop light, shop light, neon light, florescent light…but no florescence.

This is a day when a tree, full grown and green and growing still, must break through the concrete and asphalt in front of The Bay; leaf first, leaf after leaf after twig after branch rising to thick tapered trunk, stretching higher than a sequoia and wider than a cypress. It must, or we will all starve for oxygen.

But under that shade a climate is born and borne where we will lounge like the King of Hearts, freed from the asylum. We will rest in this adult Day Care and remember to ask the long forgotten questions. We will wander no more. And all the strident fundamentalist causes will pop like soap bubbles. And under that tree the world will find its imagination. And each of us will find our poetry.