Herein lies a jungle library,
a green cathedral of leaf and light,
where one wise ape, our primal sage,
sits enthroned on moss and root,
reading the Book of All Things.
Behold the scholar of the canopy,
fur like midnight velvet, eyes twin embers,
brows knit in the ancient furrow of thought.
He turns the pages with deliberate thumbs,
as though each leaf were scripture
and every letter a banana of truth.
First canto: The Grey Patriarch
He is charcoal smoke made flesh,
a storm cloud crouched in contemplation.
The book is open like a split fruit;
inside, the Word drips golden.
His gaze is fierce, yet tender,
the look of one who has seen Eden
and still chooses to study the lease agreement.
Second canto: The Emerald Novice
Now greener than new leaves after rain,
a younger brother of the forest,
hair tipped with sunrise chlorophyll.
He reads with mouth half-open,
as if the verses might fly in
and build a nest behind his teeth.
Wonder pools in his amber eyes;
he has just discovered footnotes.
Third canto: The Azure Archivist
A third arrives, dyed in twilight teal,
the color of deep rivers at dusk.
His fur shimmers like spilled petrol on water,
holy and slightly guilty.
He cradles the tome like a sleeping infant,
afraid to wake the metaphors.
Between his toes, small orchids grow,
fertilized by concentrated awe.
They read the same book, yet differently:
One seeks the Law carved in thunder,
another hunts for jokes hidden in Leviticus,
the third is hunting for his own name
written in the margin by a careless God.
The Litany of the Pages
The pages are old parchment,
thin as cicada wings,
printed in the original fire.
Some verses are in Aramaic,
some in banana,
some in the dialect of falling leaves.
Every margin holds a doodle
of a monkey drawing a monkey
drawing a monkey,
infinite regression in graphite.
The Sacred Postures
One sits upright, regal as a bishop,
back straight like the Tree of Knowledge
before the incident with the apple.
Another reclines in a hammock of vines,
legs crossed, one foot twitching
to the rhythm of unspoken psalms.
The third lies on his belly,
chin on folded arms,
tail curled like a question mark
after the last sentence of Revelation.
The Forest as Commentary
Sunlight writes footnotes through the leaves,
dappling exegesis across their shoulders.
A butterfly, drunk on fermented light,
lands on the page and becomes punctuation.
Ants march in serif font across Genesis 1:3,
carrying crumbs of previous verses
to feed their queen, who is writing her own gospel.
The Moral of the Primate
Thus the jungle teaches:
All scripture is banana,
all bananas are temporary,
yet the reading is eternal.
Even the lowliest monkey
may sit beneath the boughs
and, by diligent study,
become slightly less confused
about why he exists
between the vine and the void.
So let us join them,
barefoot in the humid hush,
and read until our fur turns silver,
until the book outlives the tree,
until the last page yellows
and the first monkey
closes it gently,
smiles with prehistoric certainty,
and begins again
at “In the beginning…”
For that is the holiest verse of all:
the one that loops forever,
a tail chasing its own revelation
through the green scriptures
of the endless, laughing jungle.
a green cathedral of leaf and light,
where one wise ape, our primal sage,
sits enthroned on moss and root,
reading the Book of All Things.
Behold the scholar of the canopy,
fur like midnight velvet, eyes twin embers,
brows knit in the ancient furrow of thought.
He turns the pages with deliberate thumbs,
as though each leaf were scripture
and every letter a banana of truth.
First canto: The Grey Patriarch
He is charcoal smoke made flesh,
a storm cloud crouched in contemplation.
The book is open like a split fruit;
inside, the Word drips golden.
His gaze is fierce, yet tender,
the look of one who has seen Eden
and still chooses to study the lease agreement.
Second canto: The Emerald Novice
Now greener than new leaves after rain,
a younger brother of the forest,
hair tipped with sunrise chlorophyll.
He reads with mouth half-open,
as if the verses might fly in
and build a nest behind his teeth.
Wonder pools in his amber eyes;
he has just discovered footnotes.
Third canto: The Azure Archivist
A third arrives, dyed in twilight teal,
the color of deep rivers at dusk.
His fur shimmers like spilled petrol on water,
holy and slightly guilty.
He cradles the tome like a sleeping infant,
afraid to wake the metaphors.
Between his toes, small orchids grow,
fertilized by concentrated awe.
They read the same book, yet differently:
One seeks the Law carved in thunder,
another hunts for jokes hidden in Leviticus,
the third is hunting for his own name
written in the margin by a careless God.
The Litany of the Pages
The pages are old parchment,
thin as cicada wings,
printed in the original fire.
Some verses are in Aramaic,
some in banana,
some in the dialect of falling leaves.
Every margin holds a doodle
of a monkey drawing a monkey
drawing a monkey,
infinite regression in graphite.
The Sacred Postures
One sits upright, regal as a bishop,
back straight like the Tree of Knowledge
before the incident with the apple.
Another reclines in a hammock of vines,
legs crossed, one foot twitching
to the rhythm of unspoken psalms.
The third lies on his belly,
chin on folded arms,
tail curled like a question mark
after the last sentence of Revelation.
The Forest as Commentary
Sunlight writes footnotes through the leaves,
dappling exegesis across their shoulders.
A butterfly, drunk on fermented light,
lands on the page and becomes punctuation.
Ants march in serif font across Genesis 1:3,
carrying crumbs of previous verses
to feed their queen, who is writing her own gospel.
The Moral of the Primate
Thus the jungle teaches:
All scripture is banana,
all bananas are temporary,
yet the reading is eternal.
Even the lowliest monkey
may sit beneath the boughs
and, by diligent study,
become slightly less confused
about why he exists
between the vine and the void.
So let us join them,
barefoot in the humid hush,
and read until our fur turns silver,
until the book outlives the tree,
until the last page yellows
and the first monkey
closes it gently,
smiles with prehistoric certainty,
and begins again
at “In the beginning…”
For that is the holiest verse of all:
the one that loops forever,
a tail chasing its own revelation
through the green scriptures
of the endless, laughing jungle.
The Sunday Circle