He Knows

SOLSTICE

Fall stalks us,
crisp in the shadows.
Summer still lingers,
but there is no heat
from the sun,
even for
the gray gulls soaring
over our yard
after they have followed
the brown ribbon of the Puyallup
up from the mudflats
at Commencement Bay;
or above them,
on the silver bodies
of fat jets winging
south;
or above them,
in the black cold nethersphere
of space
as a giddy Shuttle astronaut
broadcasts his Elvis imitation;
or above them,
where angels patrol
the time portals,
herding the steady flow
of spiritual travelers;
or above them,
where the lesser gods gather
in cabals
to plot the weather;
or above them;
where some Godhead
resides,
sentient of us,
of our every molecule
guiding,
scolding,
cajoling,
bribing,
hugging
and loving
the girls.

Oh yes,
perched there on high,
He can already see
the beautiful women
they will become,
and already knows
about all their joys
and heartbreaks,
truimphs and disasters;
yes,
omnipotently aware
of every leaf that falls,
of every grain of sand stirring
in the guts of oysters
making pearls,
and of every sub-atomic particle
straining
ready to bond
into crystal
or flesh.

All that may be truth,
even though
my dust's speck of cortex
can not fully accept it,
or fully understand it.

So for now
I am ecstatically inhabiting
the moment,
burrowing dreamlike
toward a destiny
that probably awaits us
like some kind of celestial
schematic
while we are in motion,
unaware;
eagerly rushing open armed
into the sweet mystery
of each day
together.


Glenn Buttkus 1993