Oil on Canvas Panel


Thrown into a geologic mode,

I pass the cottonwoods along the creek,

fast-rotting strata of million coming years;

then past volcanos of a youthful planet

com to mind, and folded layers

of a toney almanac laid down in grays

and quartzite worn to sand, and ash

pressed around small bits of dinosaur,

banana trees, the limestone remnants

of a bygone lake too broad and deep

to try to fathom there—and, then,

a billion passages of wispy clouds

whose molecules have circulated

through both emperors and kings,

and peasants, Popes and brash

Neanderthals with suckling babes—

as local, painted fences peel away

like flashing seconds on a clock

gone wild, midst angels wistfully

descending, flashing warmish memories

of bless and hope, reminding me

of thought itself– all human thought—

where God returns, as god has always done,

persistently eliciting a well0-worn passion

at my core for tranquil something

searching for a home beyond all this.

—Dennis Smith