Flighty Hands
by Saga Ringmar

Do I believe in god?
You ask me and I can't escape the allure of your eyes
the way your hands are perched on the armrest
as if awaiting a suitable time for flight.
Do I believe in god?
About as much as I believe daffodils
are the souls of the dead, reaching at the topsoil whispering a “hello”.
A thought that enhances the beauty of this dark world
and my muggy conscience. Yet a thought slighted when I
pull the daffodil to reveal a lone root.
Do I believe in god?
About as much as I believe my mother will live forever.
A thought that – without which – my life would
be a soggy depression, worth nothing. And yet a
thought proved false by previous merciless sacrifices,
and orphaned children.
No, I do not believe in god. Not unless he is the human
form of coincidence, his long flowing hair the locks
of man's diligence,
And the callouses on his fingers a
metaphor for man's self-made evil.
Everything is either natural or unnatural,
that is why some cry upon the sight of death and others do not.
But I sit here gladly and watch your fingers fly.
I'll write a poem or two in the meanwhile.

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