My heaven has no
passionless harp-strummers,
no starry-eyed cloud-walkers,
no Peter handing out wings at the gate.
Not a white-washed temple nor marble mansion,
nor misty stage.
No silent mass of robes and halos, no.
My heaven bristles and glows!
My Zion teems with busyness and greenery.
Its people sparkle, inside-to-out—
stone-skippers, kite-flyers, these.
Music, yes,
but not only church choirs—
in someone’s garage
guitarist and drummer
nod laughing at each other and tap their feet,
while ’round the piano gravelly voices dance.
Worship, yes,
but not only rows of saints sharing hymnbooks—
in the studio
an artist completes a sculpture,
and crowds applaud the Giver’s gifts.
My heaven is
a place of orchestras and didgeridoos,
sixteen-inch softball
and a tug at the end of your line,
children twirling under the fire hydrant
and couples waltzing the ballroom floor.
It’s a land of milk and honey
and ham on rye;
Sunday mornings,
and Saturday nights,
and all the purpose-filled workdays in between.
No dream, no ghost,
no drifting spirit world.
My heaven is real.
[1990]
