Why is it, when I’m overwhelmed with Mystery,
there’s always a magnificent sky?
The sun is stretched out like a boomerang.
Embracing the world’s edges. Promising
forevers.

At these times the leaves’ rustling rolls timeless as breakers
over the ocean whispers, and I hear
the far-away I’ve always dreamed of.

Today
there’s an ugly pattern twisting
through my head, thrown
from a hollow baton, discordant
as a warring symphony. More jerky,
more out-of-step than syncopation,
it’s heart-rhythm, made of missing beats,
and it’s ploughing through my wasted field,
tearing from the tangled breeze
one unalloyed cry:
all is passing away.

And in this glory, this utter-other, even holy day
I have been slotted in for the long haul. Until
I give in. Until I let the arrow carry me:
shot from a bow whose Hand
I do not know, aimed towards an end
I cannot see.

Today the world has too much beauty.
Too much to hold.
When will we see?