This emptiness we call a world,
swept edge to edge by aimless winds
is rubble built on ashes, where
six dancing shadows follow faith
and blisters answer prayer.
The counted moments of the clock
are stacked in crates upon a plain
besieged beneath a clouded sun,
beaten by incessant rain.
If landscape cannot make a refuge
nor memory a place to stand
yet you and I on this high rocky
pinnacle are met, and touch, and know
the realms where mind alone can never go.
– by L.W. Seeley, Jr.
Tags: dad’s poetry