An emphatic breach
In the pouring rain, the old man said,
I do not get wet and one day,
not as theory or concept
but, in a clear, emphatic breach,
I answered, of course, of course.
Somewhere from a dry, rustling field
where he stood and spoke,
the words reached me
over thirty years but more –
over centuries and continents,
oceans and dynasties –
a crack of the door,
the stones of the temple
and the lush gardens behind the walls;
the crumbling old myths.
The earth shook, dislodged a stone,
the shift of an ancient foundation
upon which everything I am
and seem to be, everything
I know and seem to know, rests.
O child of God, the flowers of the garden
unfold strictly according to God’s schedule.