Epiphany

It’s wearisome! And the Queen, the Sorceress who lights her fire in the pot of earth, will never tell us what she knows, and what we are ignorant of. — Arthur Rimbaud, After the Flood
Yesterday,
            a wind tore through
                        my state.
Today I survey
            the damage
            the loss
of trust           
in the day’s patterns.
So much
            fragility
            is hidden
            by routine,
                        a shield
                        of the commonplace,
so easily shattered
by the simplest mischance.
And now,
I stand in silence
            studying the ground
            at my feet.
A leaf
            trembles
then falls
through the still air.
I tremble
            in doubt,
then look up
            as if
                        expecting someone;
yet
only cicadas continue
                        to grind through
this unrelenting heat.
I come to a slow understanding
            of this world
I have folded
            myself within.
( June 2012)

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