The Wisemans Plea
Where are the wisemen for the early-old?
Under rocks, behind mattresses, forward on the lane
Asking old men, do you know of this?
Where is comfort for the wisemen?
Shored-up somewhere where our feet cannot reach
Buried in questions, knashing of teeth.
Where are the shamans to bring us faith?
Tied up in petty spells, showering blind men with sight
Physical sight, while I wander with spirits of darkness.
Where are the mothers to keep us warm?
In memory, in distant memory, each thought sunnier
Than the last, warm, warm, warm, only in thought.
Where is the God that once showered us with awe?
He is gone.
It is the winter.
ash