Consider Moses Climbing

A poem by Jean Shields Fleming

Consider Moses climbing,

then sitting beside a bush.

Was he just out walking,

catching a breath after a busy day

wrangling his people once the miracles began to fade?

Did the sea really part? Did frogs really rain?

When he walked away from the tents, did he expect to see God,

or did he just need to curse his brethren in solitude,

regrouping for another go at leading people to an idea.

Chosen, promised. So abstract.

I wonder at the bush. How did it burn, exactly? In flames

yet not consumed? Or burning with radiant light, as on a fall day

when the last leaves shimmer incandescent – yellow, orange umber, red magenta, and the remnant green deep inside the vein. Burning bright before they fall.

Or is it just that he finally saw

the life within the bush, the invisible force

lifting water to stem, knowing when to bud

and when to fruit. Is that what he saw, that burning, luminous life?

Who could blame him, wanting to get away?

Forget 40 years. Hell, just four hours of uncertainty and most of us

make golden idols, easier gods that sparkle.

I imagine his people, left in the valley while he’s off with God.

Fractious, tired, scared – what’s the point of being chosen

if rocks poke your back as you sleep, your children gone

feral, laughing as they play games you can’t comprehend.

What good is a promised land? Without actual milk or real honey, it’s a hoax.

Then he returns, presenting the law, so very proud. Ten things that perhaps

should be obvious, yet aren’t. Don’t kill or steal. Stop lusting

after the person in the tent next door. Recognize the gift your parents gave you,

the force that lifts water to stem pushes blood through veins.

Exactly the same. So saith the lord of the bush.

This is what he wanted to tell them, and he worked hard

to distill it down to just ten things, knowing our capacity has limits.

I admire his anger, his willingness to destroy the tablets – how long did those

take to chisel? – throwing them down on the parched ground, watching them shatter.

Breaking the law because he had to.

Then starting again.

Resigned, perhaps, maybe ashamed

at his wrathful fit. Anger can be an embarrassment.

Not patient, exactly, but persevering.

Wiser, the small horns emerging from his skull,

like a ram’s – hard knobs of experience, hard won.

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Jean Shields Fleming is editor and publisher of Certain Age Magazine. Her novel, Air Burial, was published by Carroll & Graf. Read an excerpt from her current work-in-progress if you'd like.

Image: Bush by Sonny Baccam