Polyhymnia, Just This Week
by Roslynn Pryor
Many praises, many hymns, sacred poems, songs divine. She sings of hills in golden velvet carpet folds, light trees changing clothes aside the road, yellows in season now, not greens, against a cloudfade bluing sky. She gives me oil horses in the grapevine fields, Christmas tunes early but loved, songs both Christian and non-temple-bound. She composes moving lines of music, descant or low-harmony glee, as the butterfly or bee bounces and flits between steady, predictable lines of fencepost and roadway and tree. She shows me roadside egrets in the channel drain, tumbleweeds growing in four different hues, haybale truck open since we know it will not rain. Moving parallels of endless cargo trains unbroken strands of power lines highway stripe stripe stripe stripe stripe stripe stripe stripe She plays for me he said, she said, nuh-uh, yeah, protests and howls, wry laughs, tear-filled praise, a broken hallelu- and light-filled cracks All hymns, hymns all. Sing in us, Muse, and through us frame the refrain, paint the pain, treat our stain, capture the beauty of rain, sound the vein and reveal the chain, and sing through us again, again… Everything may be sacred. Eyes, see. Mouths, sing.
Roslynn is a veteran high school English teacher, lit-jock, poet, occasional blogger at Pushing the Bruise, and aspiring novelist who resides in California with her animal menagerie.
Image Credit: “Polimnia,” by José Luis Muñoz Luque (http://www.jlmunoz.com/)