I Didn’t Think So
Tin Pulpit
Fawn not upon the mighty.
Tremble not upon hollow fury.
Stand instead in the quiet field,
where wind bends grass
and crows argue from fenceposts.
The world makes its own weight,
but your breath is yours.
Walk with that knowledge.
Carry no borrowed fear.
Bow only to the earth
that feeds you,
and to the hand
that loves you still.
Let the dogs race ahead,
snouts full of scent,
tails carving the air.
Let the squirrel chatter
from its tin roof pulpit.
You owe no reply.
Your task is simpler:
to rise with the day,
to speak clear,
to leave behind
nothing that will shame the dust.
