Epigram: For the man Jesus of my Christ, who endured much more than I could ever imagine
It is natural, I suppose
To stand amid things taller than:
The trees, the ripe old hills, a thousand dusty mountain manes.
And it is wise, I think
To wait on them as mind’s ambitions cease;
Curling up with fire and some wine, gazing on as stars collide.
Is it true, I wonder
That we are born too great
And minds lurch higher than our sunsets wrapped in fire?
—Some say men are gods, after all,
With all the moon has done—
It is sad, I know
In all that bigger, better, best
That none but dust in shining everything, I am.
And dying, as I will
With all that came before
No matter make more than on a limping, hanging tree.