The sky is finally empty
but for fading traces of
myths and legends of
Apollo and Asteria, once heard,
under the covers, holding a
transistor radio to my ear. I still believe
in a good story until it gets exalted
above its merit.
At a younger age,
when summers in Canada
I would kneel at the edge of a
frog pond and talk
with God. He was in the water but
I was already leaving for a world of
vast apparitions. That was the last I would see
of Him for forty seven years. I earned a
masters degree in
suspending beautiful ideas
in the air while
sitting inside buildings. It was
treacherous work because such ideas
will each go rogue when summoned to
account by essence. Only love survives
the years we spend questing in
some Promethean dreamtime.
Today, I must be careful not to curse
the journey taken far from primal waters, for faith
rises from ashes and longing.
Only then, and out of nowhere,
will waters pour from the firmament,
to wash away the foundation of
every faulty edifice with
grace and rage flooding backward
into my history. I seem to be
waking, gazing into a
pond full of empty blue, and frogs.
The conversation resumes.