The Conversation

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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

stood timeless

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.

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