HE HAD LONG SINCE GIVEN UP
In the earth’s spin and revolve –
no voice says now, no finger
points to the hands on a clock face,
no bell tolls the call to prayer.
Yet the sun’s slanted rays in autumn
can startle a man out of his fugue,
blind him to past defeats,
cause him to weep –
for himself and for the beauty
of this forsaken world.
And so his despair has lifted, opened
to hope and possibility – the way
a receptive ear cocks toward
a bulb’s stir into shoot and bloom.
Not needing to know why,
I rest in the mystery, unsolved
and unknowable –
heart gladdened by the way
– in the unspoken dark –
the interior readies itself.