I don’t know what it means,
this semblance of purity,
atoned on the pavement
like death,
a hand print in concrete,
silent, still
holding frame,
letting go flesh and bone.
Some trees dig down
for pockets of moisture like this,
letting go of sky,
pushing in through earth.
Subtle as it is,
sky does ask one
to rise to the occasion.
And one always and only
rises as high
as height.
There is no more to destiny.
Except that it leaves its mark;
except that kneeling down
to make it;
except that wet gush
between the fingers;
except that one moment
is the whole picture.
Height is imaginary. Depth is all there is. From there, a moment, any moment shares its deepest essence and leaves its mark on the world.
© Andrea Mathews, 2015