seven::twentyeight

The weeds and the wheat.

Sown together, grown together.

Together they rise.

Together they come out of the ground.

One to the furnace

to help transform the other

into edible loafs.

For a few days,

after the sixth day,

following the third day,

in those days,

you could gather from the ground

the fruits for the day.

Wheat without weeds.

Not now, however.

Not after stealing whatever imagined,

and ever more than could be.

The Lord's name, vain, now,

fabricated into spoken, false images,

the shape of money.

Clever, ephemeral bondage.

If it wasn't enough,

the actual stuff being made

is only taking away

the life it was supposed to fill.

That's rough, say the ones with stuff.

But, we'll swim in our filtered water

until the sewage muck spills in.

Somehow, we are to sing.

To the somehow or someone we will sacrifice,

knowing we've owned nothing.

This is not somehow spurious, though,

a whispering to guardians of lies,

but it brings us back to the source,

where and how truth births itself.

Before you die

try to rest, leaning on the pillars,

upon the markings of the covenant.

And drink from the bowl

shared with the rest of our populace,

the sufferings no longer hidden,

a taste of bitter rest, not sweet.

God, we are wandering,

our seed is spread in places infertile,

but you still are everywhere,

even where they've tried to drive you away.

Nothing being ours, take us in your arms,

with our weeping hearts,

to be fed and renewed and planted again.

(Exodus 24:3-8, Psalm 50, Matthew 13:24-30)