your voice

By Annette Marie Hyder

sizzled like a drop of holy water on a burning bush
your words were golden calves that ran
footless through the streets
melting in the furnace of the heat
of your oratory
and all the while
the fires of hell burned
in the warnings
of your sermon,
the sun kissed the world’s burning bushes
leaving them desirous of more
more light
and all the golden calves and idols in the world
that you prattled on about, rattled on about, clattled on about,
couldn’t equal one small calf born in the splendor of the sun
on this fine day

(NaPoWriMo day 20, poem 19)