My mind is on a poetic pilgrimage to find perfection,
Always reaching for the divine, hidden in the dirt.
Hand-pestled thoughts appear page after page.
Constantly ground, sifted, and tossed.
A spiritual salad in relentless reformation.
I rarely find tip-of-the-tongue earthly, salty words.
When I do, I scoop them up and relish them.
Their aroma and savory taste raise my mind to new heights.
I feast greedily as the words sift through my clenching fingers.
For they will inevitably fall back to earth.
I possess them as they possess me.
An absurd co-dependence that I oddly welcome.
Annoyed by their relentless provocations,
Seldom satisfied with the outcome,
I can not complain, for I am the chef.
I gorge on the sumptuous vintages of diverse flavors.
Combining and blending the various qualities contained in their bounty.
Earthy words tantalize and linger on my palate,
Spicy or toasty, sweet or bitter, zesty or tart,
They result in a tasty meal with memorable afternotes.
On those inspired days, I am approached and persuaded by God,
And the doubter in me is drawn closer to believing.
My stockpile of words grows.
I bind them together, then name them.
“A Journeyman’s Guide to the Divine, the Recipes of Life”.
And as the taste of the words eventually fades,
Both my portfolio and I plummet back toward the ground,
Where I must gather new stock from the earth,
And once again,
Restart my Promethean task.
The divine is always beyond my grasp.
But still—
I stubbornly dig into the earth,
Refusing to stop searching for it.
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