“Maat” (for jl)
Your soul fills
mine drains and yet it is not emptiness or despair I sense
but rather the anxious, necessary waiting of the
blank shore,
the longing for the tide’s return down to the
smallest grain of sand,
the least particle of humanity,
history.
My prose evolves of scattered consciousness
pressing its claim in a moment of recovery;
it is a matter of sand and water, madam,
relentless search and discovery whose
rhythm and purpose describes alternative time,
that is discreet and nonlinear,
thus am I juxtaposed to the whim of chaos
to contemplate this subtle, spontaneous rapport with you
for time is consciousness reduced to its simplest terms, until the
same circle that rings your pale, cerulean eyes rings, too,
the space where sand and water collide.
In a random leap of consciousness
I was nothing more than an
obscure strand
esteeming the water’s edge.
When at last my soul fills again, the
smallest grain will count the most;
I will know the measure of my soul by the depth of your
footprints in my
spirit-drenched banks.