I wrote this poem a while ago. I offer it here as a response to my friend Tripp’s meditation.
‘The universe has been regarded by the devout as, in a sense, the creation
of the night thoughts of the Deity,’ Loren Eiseley
For all my protests, all my sense of time
and place, I must not want to find the center,
the ancient home – no lasting city suits
me now and ever though I’ll take some sleepless
temporary space in which to hear
the Word, certain and gratuitous, enjoying
all these strange hours in a twilit passage.
Yet, while working in the waning night
high waves wash over the room, eroding it
like some Atlantic shore in a hurricane –
it becomes an estuary filling beneath
the Milky Way, reeling as the planet spins
and whips about a well of buckled space-time;
then I realize all at once, I’m always home.