A falling penny will shatter glass
dropped from the landing on the second floor,
but a snowflake that fell ten miles
will barely whisper when it strikes my skin
as though it chose to land softly.
Money has no mind, while snow is scheming.
I'm told that snow is no accident,
that it is a design, not by a deity
but by the sorts of life religions deem lesser.
No one ever told bacteria they were made in His image.
But they were busy tethering weather to
guide them across the globe while we burned false prophets.
A tree grows from the roof of a holy building
devours the stone and sculpture
the way the tithes were devoured, always asking
for more. Yet I can twist the roots in my hand and
slake the stone from it's grasp in my fingers.
The world tramples our chicken scratch.
A fallen penny may bring fortune,
or pay the tolls to Charon, safe passage.
Drifts may cover tombs and markers,
and fallen seeds dig open coffins, slowly.
All day long we will carry this knowledge.
All day long we chose to land softly.