All of this rushing has scraped away topsoil
until there are gullies, even in the bedrock.
Paper leaf and bone branch tumble through water,
doing their touch work of erosion before passing on to decay.
Cars align on the freeway,
gold lights threading morning dark,
syncopated, weaving, brushing by upon by.
They burn fuel, and miles, and time,
adjusting pink lipstick in a rear view mirror,
cradling a Mcmuffin,
nursing a cellphone,
staring sleep-drunk into nothing.
One car is stopped in the emergency lane,
withdrawn to photograph the rising sun,
a star blasting fire through the navy close.
I was home long enough for cold fingers to warm
before I sat at the piano. Dust was on the keys
where black waited, skipping steps through white.
There are rules of sevenths, and sharps, and flats
that I cannot obey, for I am a dolt.
And yet, I made ten fingertips press out this much:
"O Come, O Come Emmanuel."
Soprano, alto, tenor, bass,
the making was mechanical,
forced like long division,
since I am neither artist nor prophet.
Still, my insides ache,
“I am the Lord’s bondservant.
Let it be unto me as you say.”
So, I yield to the annunciation,
though the womb of my heart would burst
to bear the infinite;
for I am hay, and rags, and scent of dung,
flat and sharp,
distracted, and eroded.
Yet, the whole of all I am matters not.
Emannuel shall come to you,
and ransom captive Israel.