poetry

Possibilities
by Zenaida French

We miss the little rounding of our lives
while we wait for wondrous worlds
to leave off wandering
in the silent wastes of outer space
and stop before our doors

Meanwhile, veiled in interstellar mists they move
always beyond earth’s ken, glimmering
with a light by which we can discern
the cosmic show teeming around us

Thus, we stage our imitation shadow-play
here, where the light is far too distant
and too dim, unable to withstand
the shifting winds; and the clumsy drift
of human words and actions halt in mid—
course as the intermittent light keeps going out

The most we can do now is dive into the depths
without the actor’s tricks, plunge
our bare, unarmored selves
into the mire, the muck
from where we can break surface
only with a handful of pearls

But then we keep the pearls too long
under the searchlight’s gaze, tapping
their seamless curve for flaws
until they shrivel in the crystal light
and burn to wingless pit stones.

1984
(The Literary Apprentice, 1985)

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