Twenty Five Feet

The depth of the Great Salt Lake
Is a lesson for us all.
That greatness is a puddle,

While a fingernail of lake
In British Columbia,
Slicing three hundred meters

Deep between mountains, and not
Impressive on any map,
Could drown Chicago’s skyline.

What’s the lesson, exactly?
Pause, while the lecturer paws
Through available options—

Things are never what they seem?
Still waters run deep? Big things
Come in small packages? No,

Certainly it’s none of those.
The lecturer glances up.
Trust me, there’s a lesson there.

It’s something about being
Misled and/or misleading.
The big one holds less water

Than the small, and there’s meaning
Somewhere in that paradox.
Shallow can mean many things.

So can deep. But that’s not it.
Try this: the unexpected,
For whatever reason, makes

You pay attention, makes you
Feel that you missed some meaning,
Makes you sure there is meaning,

There must be meaning. So you
Produce your choice of meaning—
Life’s not like that. It’s like this.

The lecturer nods sagely,
Underlining the wisdom.
The Great Salt Lake of Utah

Is just twenty-five feet deep.
It means the world’s surprising,
And wisdom evaporates.

No Bells, No Cathedral

Hummingbirds, lizards, finches,
Coyotes, quail, and mule deer
Are common in these canyons—

Nothing so haunting as bells
Ringing over the peaked roofs
Humans built to spook ourselves.

We echo forms of the world
And then notice how those forms
Remind of us of our echoes.

Don’t those bird songs sound like bells?
Those cliffs look like cathedrals.
We craft our imitations

For poppets in the forest,
Then sense ourselves in the woods,
And feel haunted, as we should.