We go on in normal conversation,
Weather, wars, and weariness.
Work wears unwanted tracks into deep grooves.
We are restless, but fearful of unrest
And change, that hated irony of constant
Coming whether we chase or stay.
Sun aches across the same spaces and still
We talk, in silence or voices or hands,
And grow older. Always, longing
For that periphery, always aiming
And missing. Will it ever exist
In the center, able to be spoken?
Sometimes we catch another's silhouette
and say, "I have seen that before. What is it?"
And briefly, our visions become possible proof:
Maybe we are not being played the fool.
Perhaps we are cast as prophet and
May speak something unbelievably true.
Perhaps, and yet that bright light
Periphery keeps its place and distance.
When, O Lord, when?
Moses hid in the rock and glimpsed
Your backside glory and shone. We see
The same half-realized perfection,
More than hope, but barely so,
Being born, we hope, not just to death,
Like everything we know, including ourselves.
O Lord, come quickly. When?
We chase your glimpses,
Children after fireflies.
Off. On. Off. On
In hand, miniscule miracles in the dark,
Treasured in glass canning jars.
