Susan Dane

At night it seems some holy thing.
Large, monolithic,
as mysterious and knowing
as some ancient mythology.
It will plunge you into your own
forbidden recesses.
It will take you to the secret place
where spirits dance a magic dance
by campside fires,
pulling you into the circle,
into the trance.
Your hand grasps the rod
and you feel power–
not yours but his.
You can’t imagine
the muscle of such will
and wanting.   He takes you
strong and sure.
You follow,
grateful to be driven
by someone who knows,

In the morning you are surprised
to see how small and ordinary
everything is.  He, almost clumsy,
missing the point,
struggling to keep up.
The day a swirl around his head,
he depends on routine
and definition to find his way,
imagining the world some sort of plan,
and he a king, galloping.
How hard he works!
The plodding march,
oblivious of broken twigs
the trampled stems.