With patience, discipline, and due diligence
the prophets gathered at the limits
of their collective hearts; a point that none
believed existed, but the very place they
had arrived. Stealing themselves for the moment,
they closed their minds’ eyes, gazing instead
at the wall they had never envisioned.
Seated, in silence beneath the sudden barrier,
they ponder their end. Exchanging heroic memories of
the unlimited past, they faced without tears
nor maudlin preoccupation with the future that
could never again be present, the prospect of
a future with no prospects.
From atop the wall, lighter than the slightest snow,
ashes of a phoenix drifted down, pieces of
feather-dust they could only sense, as the
peculiar odor of rebirth clouded the air they
shared in pitiless, blind silence, surprised.
Without deceit, each prophet claimed to be
the one who first perceived. A life of looking
only inward served as plausible denial that
any had ever seen another’s vision before
the other’s regard, the landscape of the wall.
It was the life that closed eyes could not see.
They had allowed the odor of ashes and death
to close them away from the sight of the fire
from which they had drawn warmth and
inspiration, that each, without deceit, claimed
as their own. All eyes opened, in time to watch
the Phoenix as it swooped down, displaying the
plumage of tomorrow, that once again was theirs.
As one, the prophets laid down their scrolls,
committed them to the remaining embers
atop the wall, and each without question, submitted
and recommitted to the endless possible.
There may be walls, they thought, but walls are
symbols of the sublime. To gather, to think,
to ponder, to commit, to submit, to open the eyes,
to burn, to fly.
This is last week’s Wordle. It did not come to me until now, as I sit at the computer by the kitchen window, watching the snow fall. My wish for all of you is the boundless abundance of enough. . .