In reply to Melanie Almeder’s “Verge”
We are no less
than the lesser things
built on the struggles of the many
who came before, footsteps following footsteps
like a mindless cacophony, a circle
beyond all understanding, history repeating
history, the masses and the individual, a resonance lost.
The touch of rain on the roof, a rumbling
deep in sleep, and night nestled close
like a calf to his mother, is protection from the unseen;
the sound of rain rolling back generations
to the primordial, a dance of water giving
life, gives all. Even now we see the gift: imagination
greets us, a touch breathed in, some wisp
of breeze uplifting, wide-winged hawk pulling skyward,
a sweep of updraft caught in the sunlight
before the rain. I reach out, to touch, to capture
some splash on my hand. You, too, have reached out;
under a summer mist, our fingers
touch, unintended but planned, some intervention,
history preceding history, pushing us to brushed flesh,
a touch and a pulse between us, unmet and tempted.
Here, we are, new stories built on the past,
a building inward, mindful of the place we came, mindful
of the other, soft glances tempered by the ever falling mist,
open-eyed joy at the touch and a wonder of things not seen.
Our eyes see clear in the crystal rain, heaven-sent and fresh.
Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.