Most days,
I cannot see the trees for the forest;
most days,
I do not stand in awe of anything except a half-alive coffee maker,
myself half-alive,
and I think that it’s not that the earth spinning isn’t
exciting or wondrous or useful or any of that.

It isn’t the gray haze of morning
as I drive my car underneath a rising sun
or through a curtain of blue rain.

It’s that, once heaven paints the ceiling of the sky, 
each thirsty day sinks into the parched mouth of history,
the cardinal star crawling slowly
from Calcutta to Paris
to my backyard
where I am in the center of nothing
and in the middle of everything.

This is not an explanation.
This is not an insight
or an enlightenment.

But it is a notion —
the idea —
that our handprints
and our signatures
and the big toe used to make a pond ripple
is both the smallest necessity
we will always know
and the largest prayer
we will never hear.



Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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