April 18, 2007

Good Friday Recessional

The silence.
Clinks from the chain
of the censer.
Wood groaning beneath
the weight of feet.
No song, no celebration.
Only the unspeakable speaks.
So we come to terms with
what we are without
our word, our art.

—Gale Swiontkowski

Posted by dwaber at 12:02 PM

April 17, 2007

Darwinís Cathedral

I have never understood
how foot soldiers at
Gettysburg, or in Flanders
or Attica, could trample
crops in a field, uproot
another manís fences.
They, of all men, would
comprehend the labor lost.
We make the world we live in,
as birds form their nests,
termites their tunnels and hills.
Even the realm of God and sin
and goodness and song
is ours. We build like coral
on the efforts of our ancestors.
What we destroy is a breach
in the honeycomb.

—Gale Swiontkowski
(Title from the book by David Sloan Wilson, 2002)

Posted by dwaber at 11:46 AM