THE LINK UNBROKEN
Our selfsameness is writ large
In what a human being has
Ever touched.
It is in the eye and hand of
The Neolithic man or woman
Who painted the caves—
Sensations of paint touching stone
Brush or finger running dry
Breath held here and there
The twist in the wrist
Still twisting the line—
The shiver of recognition lifts
The distance between us.
It is in a poem
Of a poet long dead—
Words leaping across centuries
Without missing a beat
The ring of a feeling as vibrant
As if it were mine—
The link steadfast.
So it is
In the robust joy of Minoan frescoes
Resonant in our bodies and
In the bloody Greek tragedies that
Hold us spell-bound to this day and
The polished marbles of antiquity
Man the measure of all things.
And the builders of lofty cathedrals
Driven by a measure more sublime
Paying homage to forces
Greater than their own.
Our inheritance—
An endless sampling
Of human potential
Unfolded to levels our nature
Is capable of attaining.
In the narrow lane of time—
One foot in the past
The other in the future—
The moon tiptoes across eons of sky
The desert unrolls wise each morning
A cloud drapes lazy over the mountains
Limbs dangling every which way.
The air damp with juniper scent
Stirs some prevailing principle
Touches the four corners of
Our pillows.
THE END
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