Sequoias

The trees were beautiful
but not divine.
And yet, everyone around him
speaks as if there could be no other explanation.
"All that from a grain the size of a mustard seed,"
she says, and they all nod emphatically,
congratulating themselves for getting the reference,
making the connections.
How can they be so sure? he asks himself
and their certainty leaves him speechless.
He could never speak such a question aloud;
they would stare at him dumbly
and embarrassed,
his mother would lead him up the stairs
to think about showing more appreciation for His works
on an empty stomach.
So the thought fills it instead, like a pit,
unable to digest.

Years pass.
He is unable to know for sure
what it means to be a good person
or whether something matters enough
to voice his opinion.
There are many voices raised around him,
each pulling in its own fickle direction,
and he sometimes he feels as if something has grown
out of his skin and into the ground,
through his eyes and ears, into the walls,
stretching him, stretching him, stretching him,
until he can't even be sure where he is.
All this, he thinks,
from a seed the size of a mustard grain.