Detritus

Thoughts are detritus and
sift around and, the original
phoenix, a new idea rises from these ashes --
or it's as I hear: a thought
changes in the empty space between
one synapse and another and if
I could pin down God and say
for sure, God was real, I'd
put God there in that gap where
thought changes, a short flight
that soars yet.
How is that God and not
human?

Surely detritus is related to erosion,
the soft scraping of time. You've met
Alzheimer's victims and that which is
left: what was worst.
But in the extreme, there isn't
even that.
One "victim," a most mean predator, a grandfather, is
left with just his empty spaces. There,
has my human God taken over that man's mind and left
only the divine in a shuffling body
on its way out the door?

Copyright Louise Robertson