Everyone begins
in the dark, stumbling, grasping for purchase.
Looking for the
way to light. Footsteps to follow.
Hearing hollow
echoes, distant owl-sounds,
Emptiness so complete
that breezes make the only noise, and
snow muffles
even that.
Mother-love is not enough, the
breath of God that bolsters only infants.
Beauty nestles
there, and warm refuge, but no passage.
Giving little
revelation when delivered into an urgent, constantly turning world
both whirling on
itself and wheeling through a star-cast space
That forces motion
without specifying direction.
Show me the
way.
Ah! A companion!
Reason, logic,
formula, rule,
Discernable patterns
with stable roots.
Frames.
Handholds. Stakes in the ground.
Paths marked by
firm signposts that climb clear one on another.
Someone to walk
with. Aristotle’s salvation.
But that path
tends toward a crowd, bending in common direction,
All finding the
same solace in coherent method:
Syllogism.
Analytics.
Forward circles
on itself, becoming backward in helical stasis, patting itself on the back.
Leaving Beauty
behind. And Grace. And Good.
The din of
agreement going nowhere.
Nearby, nearly unnoticed, a cagy Socrates and refined Plato leave their marks.
Ignoring the crowd, they stalk, leaving reasoned steps behind, to a riverbank.
They point to where measured feet have no place to land and where only the willingness to flow allows movement.
The crowd
scatters.
The way
forward, effortless and punctuated only by geese rising, laughs in delighted rapids
And the place to rest appears.
All images photographed by the author
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