Mystery
Magic and footloose,
unfolding carpet knit by a million hands,
she reveals herself forcefully, steadily.
Parts of her arrive in comprehension,
but merely those immediately recognizable
and always in a sequence
because these are the limits of my mind.
Plentiful are her gifts,
pouring out whether or not a hand stretches to receive them,
a priceless stream
for which I perceive I have
insufficient valley to fill.
It is not for gifts alone that the
magical tapestry unrolls,
but for difficulty also.
Horrid, tightly fitted in time and ready to wreck,
all the gifts accumulated would spoil and dilapidate under the bundle of it.
Yet these are not mine to protect,
but instead hold for a while
and use for some invisible purpose.
And what seems her whim at times appears her precision ruse at others.
'Tis her aesthetic
to not completely be any one thing,
to rather be inexpressible, uncategorizable, incomprehensible, free and endlessly
too real,
at least until the carpet has fully unwound.
© Copyright 2007,
Douglas Decicco, 3230 NE 9th Terrace, Pompano Beach, FL- This poem may be duplicated
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