old caves again
by that faintly warm
glow of inquiry,
we remain terrified—
at the prospect
of what we might find
when what
we see, we see only
we see, we see only
by our
own light—afraid
own light—afraid
of what
we might discover,
we might discover,
if we were
to dare unleash the power
to dare unleash the power
of that awareness
which is somehow
aware of itself;
until—inevitably
our hands, trembling
like pale fire
and useless
to resist any longer,
leap and flutter—
fan-out and
dance to their
inexorable work,
dance to their
inexorable work,
to chisel and wield-
away, making bright
pictures and tall
pictures and tall
words blaze, all
across and up
and down the dank
walls—until,
walls—until,
sweaty and furious
and completely
out of room, we stop
because we must.
And we stand,
and we look.
And boldly,
we notice—the truth
gleaming back
at us, not
in the unfinished
in the unfinished
fables our hands constructed,
but entirely in the doing.
but entirely in the doing.
And, having done
all we could, we can
at last, feel good enough—about leaving.
at last, feel good enough—about leaving.
