Toothbrush
The door that opened on the holy shuts:
“I had no need of that hypothesis.”
Now, things come into focus. Every tree,
each crawling insect settles, and the eye
untroubled can see each thing as it is.
In the high places – which include
the lakes and groves, the hills and sea –
the holy is not present. Do not waste
your time in prayer, no god will hear your plea
and answer it. Theodicy is dead.
It was not always thus. There was a time
when the devout
moved in an air of holiness,
and rocks and stones cried out. There was
a time when sun and Moon and planets spoke
of meaning and of order, and the small
child prayed at bedtime, and the dying man
had faith. This was before the gods drew back,
like water from a bathtub. Now no more
will the new-minted world shine in the dawn –
or if it shines, it will no longer thrill
the yearning heart, the independent mind.
We lift our brow. We let our weary eye
gaze upward as if hope – that visitor –
had brought a toothbrush, had come here to stay.
We cease to be the sinner that we were;
we are not dust; we step into the fray;
we raise our hand in class; we ask for more.
Is there a Heaven? I am not au fait.
But there is growth and dream, and I prefer
to witness life in action than to pray.
I’d rather dance. I’d rather fight that war.
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