Musing

I know that writing about truth is pretentious at best. But this is heartfelt pretension, so I am compelled to share it.

There is no truth until you put it in a story
- when your life winds up
and you're wondering about the failed yo-yo (didn't
someone tangle it, behind your back?) -

There is no truth
that you didn't first encounter in your alphabet soup,
that you didn't feel in the rough brush
of closeness to your dad's face,
and hear through the dawning light of his whispers
into your baby-shell ears.

There is no truth bubbling
in the pit of your stomach
when the sun alights
on a stage, walks
before your eyes,
dazzles all the infinite humanity of your senses
and there is no truth, none
in dying for any thing.
We die again and again,
for dusty words.

There is truth
just in the upper left-hand
window of your restlessness.

There is truth in the hunger
for the breaking-down of walls,
the erection of new cathedrals.
And most of all, in the warmth of blood
when you can understand all its deep flowing purpose.
There is truth, for whatever else it may bring,
in crimson flowers
melting the snow.

There is no truth
until you dance truth into existence.