Burning Bush
At twenty I danced the tops of walls
Najinsky of the double top plate
bent in-two like an onion shoot
unbending up through an earthen gate
lifting sticks to be put in place
nailing their tails held against my boot
walking the wires of gravity’s net
as a spider commands the filament web
hung in the crotch of the jamb of a door
between one post and its lintel head
From the crow’s nest of my wall-top perch
poised to get the next piece set
in air as clear as a baby’s thoughts
surveying homes unlived-in yet
fresh-footed, balanced, without a clue
assessing my recent work and worth:
shadows of studs plumb and true
lying like bars across up-turned earth
Sweatskin slickkening in the light
breath as sure as the bellows of god
biceps built by the truth of weight,
muscles doing their natural jobs:
arms of sinew, bone and grit
reaching to haul the next board up
to be lifted and laid wall to ridge
and fixed by hammer blows on steel
fueled by blasts of a burning bush
in the orchard of god that has ever spun
like the fire that made big Moses reel
the burning bush we call the sun
.
by Jim Culleny
2/22/13