There is a rhyme to my wanderings.
My ways: I knew not when I walked them,
but they have been led by some
strange higher order; and if I look
back upon my journey, I sense the glimpse
of mysterious purpose, the feel
that ineffable meaning has walked with me.
I know not the rhythm of the divine,
I foot my roads without thought
that some calling guides my courses;
but I cannot but ponder what the plan
may be that will seem so plain when I peer
back to this time, these motions.
I think I will not ask why I am here or for
what I have been created, for these are only
ephemeral mysteries, as I am as
a raindrop falling through the vast open,
who cannot see plain to where it goes,
only that it must travel in the path
to which it is guided by gravity and wind.
The mystery reveals itself in the eye
of the man who has eaten the wheat
that grew from the ground where the raindrop
fell: his eye carries a fraction of the
sky to which he lifts his gaze in wonder.
