White Sunday 144: ebb and flow

there is an ebb and flow to passions that would grow,
memories yet unborn but as real as our Gods.
lines of Pascal's wager are calculated so
that we comprehend the risks and accepted odds
that may at first seem mad and sad betting against
the evidences, solely on the shadow word
that has pierced our rusted, crusted heart, well defensed
yet not enough to betray love summoned absurd
against all logic and practice. cithara strings
and a wisp of barriers implacable, stacked
against the pulse of a touch whose soft promise brings
an awakening in the tidal fates we lacked,
tossed as starfish on a raging beach, accepting
ebb and flow while awaiting the promised lifespring.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.