Sabbath Poem 3

January 13th, 2019

Why wrest meaning from truth with unholy hands gloved in statistics?
If the meaning of truth is fire, let it burn —
or leave it until it reveals itself as an egret low across the surface of some familiar river
or even accept it in the foreign and blessed call of the osprey who cries his missed fish
or see the ants and grasses in eternal sabbath;
the river flows unhurried to the shallows, without anticipation; even if it knows,
it troubles not to discover a turn before its time
and learning, yearns not for slower paces that have passed or that it hopes will come
but tumbles, fervent, rested, furious and at the pace the stones determine,
for all the time it takes to turn them and in its passing smooth;
it loses nothing of its own; the stones themselves though smaller are more regal for the wear,
and a million water-striders’ generations pass before the pebbles turn to sand.
We find our way upon the waters by that unaging hand
which draws all life, which gives all life, in whom all life is found,
and by whose passing every stone is ground into the ground,
the stuff too of which is that immortal hand:
from-and-to which all rivers flow: the sea and sky as well
as every lake and deepest artesian well:
water and blood and wine are one but we who live in time may see them distinct:
our gift of choice, or fork through which we flow, to know them each as own.
The stuff of who we are belongs not to us nor any separate thing:
there is no separate thing but that which we must love to see
and in them take such distinct delights to sing new songs in a million facets,
sparkling notes of light and sound

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