66. EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE

EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE

(PARAGRAPH OF LIFE)
October's twenty-eighth day is ending.
My thoughts try to catch up to the day, and
the time, and the place. They cannot -
only because there is far too much of everything;
the movement, the spreading out of time and
circumstance, and the broad cloth of all the
history just passed. There is so much I want to do,
yet, realizing that, I cannot do it. That such is a
covert weakness, I cannot face. The hosts of
Heaven's time and place would not hold me back -
only if I had, once, the opportunity to go knocking,
to search, to find. The abacus has lost its beads.
The lyre is silent and without sound. I am hamstrung.
I should not be judged, therefore, by this loss and absence.
It is not for not trying that I am found wanting.
-
It is hard for me to talk.
The words do not flow as
they once did, and the meanings
of what I wish to say are less clear now
than ever before. The listeners too
are different. Have I lost my way?
-
I once had my own photo of a lake and its
darting layout - a finger of land sticking
straight out into the water. It stood by itself.
Cottages and boats, chimneys and some walls
along the water's edge - everything in its place
and all of wood. The grand houses and palaces
of the czars it may as well have been.
Now it is all over. Everywhere, everywhere.