God of Plenty

Often when the dust
Flies in your face
Eyes half closed
You’ll conjure an image
Of situations
That never arose,
Of gestures
You never posed
And the moment let goes
The trepidations of heart,
Trivia, bonhomie
And a prayer once sought.

Morning
Seems the best time
Eyes swollen
Perhaps a fresh mind.
You raise your hands
Up to your head
Reflect profoundly
Before besieged by the day ahead
But the lumps in your throat
Feverishly pitch their hopes
On what always evades:
A man’s guts and a woman’s faith.

Ensconced in her arms
You see the emotions surface
Amidst the mosaic patterns
Of her evening dress
But you have no choice
Except to align, follow.
Rejoice for reasons
Long felt hollow
And if the evening wears thin
Rid your soul free of vanity
A prophet once said
There exists the God of Plenty.

©Dan Husain
February 26, 2005