These lines do not
seek to elucidate great truths,
nor do they speak of empires or a paradise lost.
To my great surprise, they have appeared,
letter by letter, to speak of water and leaves
that write history anonymously
as they fall or flow into a sunrise or sunset
that may or may not be noticed
by a camera shutter or the persistent scratch
of a pencil in a journal.
Commentary is in short supply these days.
These lines exist to speak of the moment,
a placeholder so that people fallen in time
might catch up to the elusive present,
though it is probable that only a few will arrive.
The words are as quiet as an epitaph,
as unpretentious as a suit off the rack.
They watch but are not seen
except by those who ask, seek, knock.
They are as elusive as a shadow
slipping into the death of high noon,
and yet they could hold the sun falling
into the sea
if anyone demanded such a feat of humility.
In silence is power.
In a word there is always epiphany.
In the beginning was a word,
and these are the children of God.