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  Wings of Light
99749 Poems Read
Microcosm
Think one new thought and
miniscule worlds shift,
and the teeming, untiring architecture
beneath the visible responds like a
supporting actor in this ravishing,
unholy and fabulous drama where
particles mirror the known
and the unknown vastness,
even the spiral template of all creation.
If we could see it,
we would tremble.
We, who are microscopic to the lordly cosmos,
yet just as vital,
irreplaceable,
don't know our worth, but the Architect
knows and Architect feels every
rasping fit of the catydid, every green
thing tinged with playful versions of gold
like the van Gogh yellow hitting a high
note in the garden while under, way under,
it all, terrifying galaxies live subatomic lives—
the smallest, silent thunder that creates us.
In the quantum land we're here and then not here—
we're solid wonders, then something else . . .
and never-ending.
Soon the moon will slither out of the trees
and my heart will crack and disperse, and that's good,
because the open heart knows what God is,
and I'll finally believe,
without scoffing, that we are imagined and
adored into existence by something capable
of ungraspable goodness.
The moon has arrived and
I'm devastated.
Now I know.
Patricia Joan Jones
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©2000 - 2002 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.
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