Swathed in the predictable he desires
what can be said before saying
gives comfort to him in its saying
like an old man’s shawl in early fall
or prayer beads clasped in broken hands
the familiar feel of the strand slowly
sliding between the thumb and finger
provides a succor without redemption’s
assumed final consolation so
he presumes an understanding beyond
reason to settle across the snowy fields
to walk any path as if it were his own
a known amble in which complacence
can grow like moss without rebuke
yet acquiescence’s bow allows
only a momentary grace to fall
as his doubt gives way to despair
(March 11, 2015)
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