These nights, they are alive
As these ancient watch-fires burn overhead
We are told “be slow – unyielding”
We burn for a reason, and our time only.
This, the dust from which we are made
Burns like the wheel
Marking a path in the dirt of generations
a thousand times over.
These waves, an undulating metronome
Hissing out a song across distance
as the whales across miles of open ocean
It’s progress – a message in the movement
Calling us back and forth
Along the thread of experience.
The sea remembers nothing, and it forgives;
Yet, even the most obtuse and temeritous are forced
Toward unseen pattern in that presence.
The most important stories are
Sometimes those so easily accessible –
Those supposedly mundane paths
Obfuscate an elemental knowledge.
I am small and in awe against the
subtle rendering drawn by the unseen hand.