In the natural wild,
as my untethered mind traces
the fiery curves of bounding clouds above,
a primal spirit races past the blackening heavens
and laces my thoughts with memory,
an idea from the earliest of human time,
formed in the rumbling thunder of an approaching storm
as darkness had obscured the blazen sun
wherein our ancestral story of a god was born.
Ages ago, on one moonlit eve,
once we had hunted and we had gathered
and all labor for the day complete,
we assembled round a great crackling fire to feast
and told the stories of gods and beasts that we’d imagined
to satisfy our curiosities and pacify the uncertainties
of our early world.
We told of a provisional god
who wept the rains for life,
and of a punishing god
who howled and scowled with winds and thunder and flash;
and of a compassionate god
who filled the sky with warmth and light,
and so on and so on the stories went
until sense could be made of the natural wild.
And year upon year, after every hunt and gather,
the Storyteller who had inspired us best
was asked by all, to tell it all again,
to entertain us in those late hours before sleep,
where our heavy eyes would see shadows leap behind dancing flames,
with the story of a god who made the thunder and the sun
who made the earth and the moon and man,
and soon these words became the dreams and the memories
of a people.
As I peer today across the mountain tops
and into the blackening heavens,
as darkness obscures the blazen sun
and thunder rumbles of an approaching storm,
I see what we saw then, and feel what we felt when
the first tales of god were dreamed
and I remember .
by Jason Weaver
Author’s Note: This photo-poem was submitted as part of an open link poetry exposition at D‘verse Poet’s Pub. Come check it out!
Note: After publication, I changed the word “They [told]” to “We [told]” ~Jason