by Paul C. Binotto
© 2019
Matthew, Mark, and Lukewarm
What could be the harm,
In walking in the shallows,
Closer to the shores of all things hallow?
If I bought the farm
What would be the harm,
In resting in breezy mellow
Than head-on into windy bellow?
Where’s the harm
Walking arm and arm
Elbow to elbow, with a fellow
But not to follow?
Matthew, Mark, and Lukewarm,
What could be the harm?
To lean on, not under, an umbrella
In the rain, by its crooked hooked handle?
Would I be any less connected?
Any more neglected or rejected?
Or corrected? Or cross-selected? Resurrected?
If I weren’t so horizontally erected?
What could be the harm,
Matthew, Mark, and Lukewarm,
If I bought the farm?
Only to sit in its shady green garden
And read?
And, never planted a seed?
Down among the choking weeds
Just a bed for weary bones and worms to feed -
Just the book, worms, and me?
What could be the harm?
Down there – down here to sound alarm?
What’s to beware, here, there, back here?
To steer clear, taking up the rear?
Where, I’m free to loose, or lose,
When the night comes too close
To see to fight
What flees the light? Or resists its grip when it grips too tight?
Fostertales 