Consider the iguanas recumbent in trees,
a kind of love, joy in the surprise
Florida cold snap numbing iguanas–
that heavy-ripe fruit flopping on
passers by, some poets, laughing.

Yes, it’s true, in paradise ripe fruit doth fall.¹
O magical iguanas unencumbered
on your backs, assorted legs dangling
akimbo from old-man bellies. Laughter
the blessed prescription for the Fallen.

My pastor mentors, Brandon and John,
“poor in spirit,” meaning humble, being still
as those contemplative iguanas
breathing in and out, easing to the edge
of tropical tree limbs, something

belly-laugh funny about to transpire,
know the falling that will come to all–
turmoil of noise, static of the airwaves,
that rigid morality condemning
the hilarity of pending iguanas,

hope for the burned out longing for
truth and peace, a slapstick poetry
foiling voices clattering the air–
dry bones, rattling skulls.
You go, Poets.

The reverend George Matheson,
Doctor of Divinity, 1842-1906,
knew being blind did not mean
sightless, so penned his hymn of Joy,
Love sifting down, fallout of iguanas.

Who could have expected compassion,
grace, mercy of the merciful²
for such creatures, that special
rejoicing, exceedingly glad,
salvation of iguanas?

Sources:

*https://hymnary.org/person/Matheson_George
¹Wallace Stevens, poem “Sunday Morning,” VI, line 2.
²Matthew 5: 7 (The Jerusalem Bible).