Hunger Pangs
 
I left your church on Sunday
hungrier than when I arrived,
tired from struggling to hear
your soft whisper
above the meanderings
of two hundred wishing themselves
somewhere else.

Here, in your forest,
free of litanies and dogma,
a spring storm breathes rain
upon the grass.
Each thirsty blade
drinks through roots
sunk deeply in the dirt.

Between sheets of rain,
nearly lost inside the gray,
your oaks lose brown winter leaves
and push out tender green,
nourished by last year's decay.

Squirrels, dripping tails
soaked as thin as whips,
gnaw seeds to ease their pangs.

Your goldfinch
finds haven in a tree,
perches on the feeder,
feasts on thistle seed.
 
I sit, listen, feel, happy
when my empty stomach growls.
You reply,
with deep, resonant thunder
that rattles my ribs,
picks straight between my bones.

I rummage inside myself
for something
to feed you.

Scott Speck
04/28/2002