Sunday, May 22, 2011

A Tincture of Pokeweed-Sense

We have now pass'd a full Day since the suppos'd, predicted end of the World, on May 21st, 2011.

It will be quick enough to guess the Counters offer'd by the True-believers of this Profecy. "Perhaps it was no end of this world, but rather the Beginning of the Tribulation, where all our Mettles shall be tested!"

"Perhaps the holy are already disappear'd, and the Wicked discover'd by their continual Residence on Earth."

"Perhaps there are yet geologick Distempers brewing in the molten Innards of our country - ye need look only to the volcanic Belch, again spewing from Iceland's hoary beard!"

Perhaps ministers & schoolmasters enough are convinc'd of this folly, that the next Generation will grow into a fearful & wither'd State, forever apprehensive of their own Failings. Impending Doom will bend the spines of our proud Country, & scolioted Virginia shall have a Hunchback Governor.

But when I hear these easy-enough Cries, promising the Long Grim Slide, I can only give in Echo four-fold Laughter. If there is this God that tends the trees and watches over each Flock after its kind, to what end this general Conflagration, so eagerly awaited by his Followers?

Why wou'd he allow the trees to bend under their darkening greens? Why wou'd he swell the Gerando River with all the rich silt of a Nile, or Tiber? Why wou'd he allow the wheat-fields to whisper with the softness of distant Surf, and yet in a moment peel back the Rind of the earth, to melt & eternally singe us all?

I put my faith in the downy yellow Ducklings that trundle after their mother, near the nest she made of nettles and twigs. I put my faith in the grackle that makes her nest in a Gutter, high above my head, so that I may only know of her young by the squawks that emerge from my roof. I put my faith in the clay-red calf I saw yesterday in the Fort Valley, running after his mother with all the joy of one who has only just discover'd running.

These are better signs indeed than Disorder in the Middle East, which has ever been a blazing, bloody ground, or the misdoings of a few miscreant Politickos. What cou'd a just God care about a politician, when his eye apprehends as well the Duckling?

What a cruel God He is to these Apocalyptites, that they must live another day on the bounteous Earth. Indeed, to such Unrulies as wish the end of the world, What better punishment than a beautiful weekend, such as this?

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