Kenn Amdahl

Eugene, Oregon

My friends pity my lack of religion

And make me visit the books and dark buildings

Where their God resides.

They console me with candles, prayers, and incense

In rooms where passive brown leaves

Wait for the winter that turns them to dust,

Hoping they are not leaves, after all

But seeds.

Desperately hoping Spring will find them;

Constructing eternity,

Seriously following the tedious instruction book,

Step by step

By step.

But I sang with my God this morning,

Loudly, laughingly, and carelessly off-pitch,

As children sing, and madmen,

Drunk with delight at simplicity

Armed with the weapons of joy;

I’ve been infected with the dazzle, and contagious,

For I am earth, stirred together by music,

And my god is Sunlight

Dancing with Water.

Ambushed sleepy earth this morning,

Sucker-punched gritty-eyed late sleepers;

Flashing light slapped the ticklish moving lake,

Coaxed a giggle of leaping, falling rainbows

From the cool, sensual water;

Poised and paused,

Then, with a shimmer,

Cast off the disguise of familiarity,

Stepped from the perfect hiding place of everywhere,

And stood there, naked and grinning.

“These are the weapons of joy,” the lake laughed,

“The secret spinning engines of happiness,” the light answered.

“Soaring swelling glee to fill your throat,

Impossible reunions, glistening iridescence,

Smile and song and laughter — the weapons of joy;

What coldness in this

Or any world

Could resist them?”