As an atheist,
If find it mighty funny how often I think of Moses.
And I ain’t talkin’ like
“Moses supposes his toes are roses”,
More like,
As this great force of nature,
Climbing out of the grain of forests,
Rough-hewn from chunks of granite,
Leathered over with a hide tanned by labor and vice.
Smile lines, deep-dug canyons splintering out from his eyes,
Not that Moses tells many jokes:
He just knows the virtue of an undisturbed mountain spring,
As his oaken joints creak to sit down beside it.
And I know,
That this ain’t the same mane that led the Hebrew tribes through the desert,
But I can’t help but think,
Even us godless need some prophets.
