Tired

I gave up praying to you
when there were no more intentions
to beg for --

when the adolescent lust
I fought to control
seduced me
from between the pages
of a Sears catalog,

when I reached my intellectual summit,
proud to stand alone
as a mechanistic wonder
in a deterministic world.

The next fifteen years blew by
with you beside me
painting sunsets
in fire and smoke.
You, teasing me to stare
into the fury of exploding stars,
where I watched you nurse
a thousand nascent worlds
toward light.

You squeezed in beside me
in the MRI machine,
told me to hold still
between clicks and drones
that hammered home
the hardest evidence -- M.S.
Thank you for not asking me
to smile for that picture.

You blew a soothing, warm breeze
across the backyard
the night after Dad's funeral.
I was so grateful
to hear his garden windmills
one last time,
squeaking as they spun.

You spoke to me 
through physical laws
I had long worshipped --
Life was no accident,
I am not here by chance alone.
You brewed consciousness
in the primordial soup.

I always felt you hovering an inch away
but fought the urge
to face you,
to open my eyes to yours.
Now I'm just too tired.
How about if I hug you?
With my eyes closed...

Scott Speck
01/24/2002