He would wonder at this strange thing, life.
Would the house he built survive the coming flood?
Most of us never think of that moment when things
fly away, when they seem to know its the last day.
We keep to the rhythms, working steadily,
forgetful of the passing smile, forgetful of those images
that seem forever to hide among the pages, driftwood
laving in the waves between push and pull, insecure.
We gather up the fragments into a sheave, let slip
the twisted tinsel of our momentary pleasures and dislikes;
the fabricated musings that break across our slowing lives,
the questions that will never be answered, explained.
But even that doesn’t bother us much now, this knowledge;
knowing what we know now, knowing too much as it is.
We’ve entered a new innocence, discovered a new clarity,
found a path into the knotted wood where being lost is being found.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.