There are those that argue with the ever-rivaled answers to aged old inquiries, with graying question marks hanging loose in the background. There is space in all its illuminated mystery and lab coats behind desks who burn for more. There is a theologian who still hunts for more words, and all I can stand to ask is:
What about the pineapple?
What about the watermelon that quenches my July thirst?
What about the potato that’s passed at Thanksgiving?
I guess what I guess, because you would think we are all guessing, is that it’s easier to say that you can have your Big Bang and you can have your big, Greek words. I’ll take the planted seed, the silent crackling of the root and the rebirth of a new harvest. All because, as it looks to me, there is a song to hear from the fruits that hang, the greens that grow, the hand that reaches for them. They all seem to know the secret between the guesses – a thing or two or more – about You.