You watch and determine day
from night
You linger past the
moonlight’s afterglow, well into the promenade looming behind a crested pounce
of wave
Evenings are but
intermediaries to you
And your centurion’s
cage is, at most times, evenly divided into quadrangular partitions of sky
You watch A hour half
past six or a
Five months from now—wherein,
affixed the
Light stays as
strikingly as ever remembered
Or if noncommittal,
than your alternations harp accordingly—
To where a number of
factors alit the present face, to which, of course, your eye catches each
fractured toil and fragmented stint,
You are born
You are beneath
You are besides
And you’ve always been
between
Yet it is here where
you allow your form to follow form and not in that “some other time of year,” where
flesh glistens by moonlight, dances it’s hypnotic tides across the serenity of
it’s mystic shores
It isn’t always always
fair, just, deserved, proper, adequate, moral, ethical or right. Yet you
evaluate all things as if they are all cut from identical tapestries
It may not even be considered
plausible to the well-magnified test of eye. You not only understand this, but
appreciate it as well.
You always seem to
deliver us the current’s time of day
You notice and then
proceed to oversee the fourteen lights and you remember that twelve of these
originate a lake; one from a river and the other is a long and winding stream.
You hear a swift sound. It scurries quickly across the rocks
You hear the rasping
quicken but do not inquire upon its source.
You are not curious,
for you are fully aware.
You know it is but a
sound. You know rats abound this place,
as they nest their families near the grates of drains. You fear them not and understand them
completely.
You declare that they’ve
been unjustly defined. Your posture alleviates apprehension. Your loving tone quells the fears that may
have otherwise stirred within. You
indicate that while they are truly a rambunctious lot, it is only that
they are consumed by restlessness and are but solely happy to be, invigorated
by a life that does not ignite until only after darkness has fully blanketed
the light of day.
You bend over
slightly.
As you do, your robe
sways softly in the salty air.
You reach down and
return aligned.
You are smiling as you
hold the smallest of them.
It fits within the
palm of your hand. It is
malnourished. You provide it the
sustenance it needs.
You take hold of
me. Your grip is firm and strong. It is comforting to hold. You lead us down the break-wall, taking us to
its very point. You see my reluctance and whisper to my soul, “follow me and
you will not fall, for I love you as I love each and all.”
You disappear, yet I
still feel your hand in mine. As the surf tickles heel to toe, you’ve filled me
with all I’ll ever need to know.
Later today, stop on over
to D’Verse where the exploration into point of view continues with this week’s
Meeting The Bar.
