What

by Richard Springler

The storm is gone, so
many things good are past…
lifted away and lost to
a cruel subtraction of desire.

Now action to survive
is, somehow, paying the cost.
And we, reaching thin dawn
alone, alive, naked
ask ‘How?’

Like the scent of the World,
far at sea, itself
The breath of heaven
even here in everything.
Crying.

“Show the way,
by the greater part,
always bending close.
This empty-handed heart
finally,
must grow.”

© 2002, Richard Springler

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