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Strolling Over 

The understanding it would
take to fully retain God’s love
            is out of reach— it’s as impossible as

trying to count the quartz, olivine,
gypsum sands—
            scattered         all over  the world,

hugging the outline of each continent,
the tan and white picnic blankets
on each coast,

            resting
                        on
                              the depth


of the Mediterranean, Hudson, Arabian—
Deeper than we can dive,
             pieces         in       piles        

 
creating the dry Sahara, Lechuguilla,
Kara Kum, Tien Shan,
           sprinkles   of    it    in    the    streets,


unfrozen sheets on the floor
of the arctic marine, 
            holding the  imprint
                 
            of the     
                        stepping     
                                        foot,

the roots of the trees,
in between our toes, we sink
                        into yawning places.


But we don’t notice; 
we dust the grains off,
           stride---through—it, nonchalant,


apathetically doff the value
of how it holds the earth in place,
 how it            lingers  

                          on our beach bum’s face. 

By: J. Cherie