Gods Fingers

by Kevin O’Keefe, USA

God’s fingers
rise long and slender
from the needle-strewn earth

his pinky sways close to our tiny home and
we don’t want to die in bed.

It isn’t whimsy or the need for a
big sky, that keeps us up at night.

Last month, an old maple sheared
off the wall of our shed.

In his palm I wish to rest but
a black gooey stigmata pools there.

Sixteen-feet closer where nuns told me he lives
his fingers open into two crisp peace symbols—

nothing goes out of fashion in his open air closet.
Later this week a pig farmer will come over and chain saw

the bottom while I pull a cable halfway from the top in his bouncy tractor.
The whole morning I’ll apologize for the song of grief called “technology.”

In the trees’ earth-shaking echo I’ll have my Hercules moment,
suspicious that its’ shadow will overtake me.

I’m told a trees’ roots are twice its’ canopy.
If so, there’s a whole world
I’ll have to apologize to
when I go down.

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