by Matthew Andrews
It’s been written that stones will cry out
to God in the absence of hallelujahs.
What a strange idea: not that stones
could ever be compelled to speech,
but that there is any silence to be found.
On this morning, one like any other,
the harvest of good soil – the parsley,
the tarragon, the chives – and the bacon,
that unclean animal baptized to saltiness,
mix together with the eggs, all transfigured
into a pillowy communion of sunshine,
and I am almost deafened by their praise,
almost driven to tears that any stone-sunk
heart could be deaf to these cries of worship.
Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer who lives in Modesto, California. His work examines the intersection of the spiritual and the secular, the wrestling match between belief and doubt, and the complications of an ancient faith in a modern world. He can be contacted at matthewjandrews.com.