Forty-five Minutes After Sunset

All that we have studied,
All that we have read
Or endeavored to discover,
To call into being or make use of,
All that we have dreamed might be
Or come close to demonstrating
With a gaze or a glance
Or a series of words cascading
Unspoken in the mist,
All the tired testimonies
Of long-running convention,
The structured delirium of never knowing
If this repetition is tradition or
Something short of it,
All our vain and fragile humanity
Spilling upward through time,
Is less knowledge than there is
In the simple act of breathing.

This is the recognition that comes
As rain falls on the water
That laps against a rocky shore,
And the world stands aside
Quiet in the distance and unsure
Of whether it would be right
To intrude into this clarity.

We experience so few moments of balance
Where the big and the small,
The winning and waning,
The purgatory stiltedness of
The everyday everyday and
The glorious vastness of grace,
Herd themselves organically
Into a unified act of witness
That allows for both error and perfection;
Each morning or afternoon
Meditation apart, where fracture
And failing and fissure
Cannot reach, should be trusted,
Listened to, made music with,
And shared on the wind instrument
Of our big history.

We are the struggle to be
Who we are, and when, and how,
And also to be transcendent,
Whether we have any idea
What that will feel like
If and when we achieve it.