Rain
by Mary Lambert
Is this what it comes to?
This struggle for sense and
strategy?
A swift dart carries the message
"It doesn't exist except in the
Sahara of logic."
So what remains?
Logic, the great mesmerist,
locks out all truth but its own.
Babies, we pursue an alphabet that
makes God so limited, the essence of
His galaxy is lost.
To Logic's paring method, we lose
our souls to rationale,
tragically fearful of losing our grip.
Turning our backs on inner nebulae,
not grasping their calculation, doors
to the universe remain closed.
Shriveled in our pyramids of linearity,
this benighted galaxy patiently spirals
around us,
Waiting, waiting, that we might watch
a drop of water fall and splash the
eternal answer.
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