The Magical Tree by Thomas Martin Saturday


Variations on a theme . . .

A lone and battered green car sits
under a massive grove of Redwoods,
chiding me for my undue attention to striving
for things,
rather than life
amid the bronze fields of corn and wheat
waiting to be harvested,
plowed under
stumps smothered in the snow
proclaiming we are dust
and to dust we shall return.

The automobile brings us speed,
transports us to rank consumerism
narcissistic distractions,
driving us further away
from the soul supporting tree of life,
whose many branches
vibrant, exuberant existence
nothing material,
transcendent soul forces
cosmically arranged
in infinite patterns of beauty.

So it must be dust to dust,
bodies no longer
populate earthly plateaus
meaningless struggles
after the ephemeral,
not held in the arms of grace,
God consciousness
branching in limitless dimensions
memories within,
that hyper consciousness
rising to the great I Am.

-October 2014

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