The Direction of the Weapons

Hermit Moses never died,
Never wanted to go on.

He climbed to the overlook
And built a hut on the cliff,

From which he could watch the land
And not have to manage things.

He’d seen enough of the world
To know there’s no need to know

All the back-and-forth details
Of more wanderings and wars.

Settlements grow by surplus,
And numbers usually win,

And any rare exceptions
Or reversals of pattern

Will point in the direction
Of newly wicked weapons.

In the long run, the Promised
Land itself is all that’s left,

Reshaped by fire and climate,
Success and catastrophe,

Hosting new suites of species,
New histories, none of these.

Hermit Moses had no wish
To see any more, up close,

Of what blades did to infants,
Seas of reeds to chariots,

New gods to the indigenes,
Pillaging to the pillaged.

He perched on the cliff and watched,
Knowing his end would be his,

Whatever fresh winds blew in
From whatever direction.