SABBATICAL
When he left his box
The hills and canopy of clouds twisted
And became corners of
The same box he left.
Pine needles were fermented
Yet they did not give him ease like candles or incense.
Fish looked like the squirming shadows
That haunted him during devotion.
Bark was that gnarled surface
That needed pounding for parchment.
Work of man he thought makes God’s
Creation Pure
Holy Work gives worth to nature.
My eyes are focused on God he thought,
God alone. I am hot but I will not
enter this pool to appease my flesh,
My flesh does not deserve it, and besides
I am too fat from a diet solely of the
Penitent skins of potatoes.
©2008 Jerad Knudson, All rights reserved