Hidden In Possibility
What if it were - all of it -
by Daniel Brick
already over and I,
an agonized witness
to events winding down,
were trapped in a permanent
past tense? Would lamentation
and celebration alternate,
as if our situation, ever ambiguous,
would always be in flux, never stable?
What then should I do with my patience?
At whose feet should I lay my tenderness?
I am confused by my own
imaginings of things still
hidden in possibility. I will
rehearse a thousand roles in exile,
and wait for a summons to return
to the stage. (Oh, patience rewarded!)
Once there, before those expectant faces,
turned upward at me, I would play out
Jacques's Seven Ages, or assume
the murderer's role in Hamlet's GONZAGO,
getting off scot-free because he's nameless.
No! I do not want a staged life,
swamped in another's consequences,
bound to another's view of Fate. I worship
the largest forces of the universe. But the sublest
signs of Love arouse my tenderness. Perhaps those
I might have loved, had they given me
an answering gesture, will wind back
into my life on the Wheel of Time.
I may even leap onto it in a frenzied
moment. Or merely reach out and seize
a single flower for its beauty as the Wheel tumbles on.