This poem was a reflection of a situation I experienced.
We rush about gathering pages.
What colorful lament leaves regret?
Leaves we’ve meant to photograph.
We gaze up looking for stars
Building the sun.
The equality of secrets,
Secrets positioned,
Pruned and tied neatly along the fence.
Task at hand becomes a distraction:
Phone calls unanswered,
Voices unheard,
Messages unread.
Is there serenity in the steps you shuffle?
And what comes of the pages?
Myths of scorn and greed
Blanketed in the silence of memory lost.
We return again to meditate
As we move along underground tracks
Through underwater tunnels.
A scrap of ideas,
A phrase of prayer,
A creation, we made.
Our ancestor’s assignment remembered.
What will be remembered?
In this rhythm beaten down
Generations lost,
A faded photograph—
Only to be slipped between the pages
Folded to form a book,
Book to be passed on
To future relations
Still unknown,
Still unconceived.
Held on by tradition.
Held on by a string.
Held on until your grasps fails.
Let go.
Are we left empty handed?
What imprint in the dust?