Signs

I look for signs in ordinary things: 
in the rain dripping from a red 
Malabar tile, in the hush after a door 
slams shut, in the way a bird trusts 
the slender stem will bear its weight, 
in the strength of a seed breaking 
through the dark soil into the sun. 

A sign that this crumbling has purpose,
that the purpose has meaning,
that in the space between what is
and what is meant to be, we are 
still moving in the right direction.

But revelations are in short supply. As 
if we have used up our quota of light.

The biggest things are clear enough. 
Everything existential unravels when 
we let time spiral or feel the moving 
edge of the universe. But try to 
square these: the abundance of evil, 
the precarious shifting — truth, 
sand, cloud, love — why language 
evolved if so many are so silent for 
so long, if somewhere faith is waiting 
–  if faith is all about waiting. 

Then I see a lone boat make its way 
across the blue. Brave, unwavering. 
Like a guiding star. A beacon in the
turbid haze. There. Even when 
it isn’t. Visible. Even when it isn’t.

All it needs are the wise to follow it.

#Poetry