Please, allow me to explain: I was simply exhausted,
a damn tired Jehovah. The worry, the burden for each
joy, grief, birth, death, relentlessly tedious reincarnation,
too much, I left, I hid, a recreant creator.
Much too young to apprehend, when there was nothing, when
I sat alone in black abyss (Hesiod’s Nyx, quite the bore),
my room far too monkish, the décor, modern minimalism,
I pined for Victorian knickknack.
The stars, sun and moon took longer than expected;
all the rest was afterthought, celestial procrastination.
I did not foresee the task of empathy essential for every
crawling worm, snail, cricket, every sleek, magnificent leopard,
every walking, talking child, astonishing parcels of neurons.
Please! I am not responsible – all this beauty! I never presumed
to be your mother, your father, certainly not your savior.
Daniel David is a writer, artist and professor living along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. His poems have appeared widely in a number of venues across the United States, in Canada and the United Kingdom. His publications also include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior; chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha; and his novel, Flying Over Erie.
