Among the Vast

I feel
small
in this field.

My house
is only
a feature

here. Not
something
that dominates

the landscape.
And so it is
with me.

I feel
small
in this field.

Diuturnity, Someone's December

There are no patterns,
no science of soul,
and metaphor is wasted on the casual.
Works of Penelope

in cubby-holes, dusty, tutored, stacked,
smelling of gone lives.
What remains after
the living? Nothing electric

because by the time something
could be fashioned from the visible, we
are sear and yellow leaf, feeble,
tense-challenged. So why

the zeal? I think it cruel
that we only brush up against
morning. Morning has no handles,
no footholds, is new to be old.

Update

It is morning again…and something in me grinds, at least for this one moment.
There is a flavor of memory on my tongue, of a long night, of passion and fear.
The sun justifies my waking, but I need more to get me in full light,
to get me to leave my mark, my signature on this day…only then will I be worthwhile.
These times are raw, fundamental, in competition with History herself.
I see it all in such vivid relief, the maps’ topography rising to my fingers,
to my eyes, nice little folds of earth. Peace, an over-used and misunderstood word,
loops in my mind; but as I lie still in bed, peace eludes, as does faith.
One so learned as me, having been to the school of life with mixed results,
bristles at the drama that unfolds.
But, pulling myself up to warm waters, I wade.