By Eric Martin
The pilgrim slept in with the gods
until Spring dripped from the fingers of every tree.
She leapt out hungry into the fields
and heard the hymns of sparrows in flight
and children in chase
and somewhere the bats upside down.
For a moment she thought she saw
the taxman barefoot and eating cherry popsicles.
The sun pressed itself upon her,
armpits swelling with sweat,
and the grass itched
and the buds gained confidence
and the sky shouted “infinity!” at everything.
She nestled into the ground,
knowing she too must have roots,
and when a lone ant crawled across her leg
she yelled “good idea!”
and praised God
(who gave her flowers in due time)
in the dirt.
Eric lives in Charlottesville, Virginia, where he writes poems while finishing his dissertation on Dan Berrigan’s theology.
