To be an instrument
I hope to become inconsequential
(this poetry not to the contrary).
The Mystery pens it and I attach my name.
That’s all right. No
one knows who
this child of God is anyway, least of all me.
After the illusion of flesh, I’ll be merely a memory
(to a few, soon forgotten)
and to others, a printed name.
The poems will linger, staunchly
in their stiff black ink, before they fade also –
like the final notes of an afternoon recital.
Isn’t this evanescence good and proper?
A restorative coda, an emphasis of silence
after a firmly spoken, heartfelt prayer.
O child of God, to be inconsequential
is to be an instrument in the royal orchestra.
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