Perhaps, in the end, questions concerning the origins of man and his universe will not be answered. We want answers, but chances are they are way beyond, or before, our reach. This is like asking about the origin of faith, or the origin of mind. Everything we know is manifest, but attempting to answer the question of “from” or “where” will only takes us in circles.
Reflecting on such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 14th villanelle.
Ephemeral
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
A stone now manifest and in the air
Barely above the water, gliding on?
Was it the misty void, though folded soft
Within its mystic lair of dark allure,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?
A stone’s gray flight can never last for long,
Its hue in contrast with the liquid mire,
Barely above the water, gliding on.
Do waters ponder, when it lands awash
And splashes up in flight again to soar,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?
Momentum slows for every skimming rock,
Too soon to sleep enfolded in the mere,
Barely above the water, gliding on.
Once it is lost from view, its motion stopped,
Ripples expand and fade; and, no-one’s there
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
Barely above the water, gliding on.
