White Sunday 314: witness

your light persists, even though bent a bit

by the refracting forces of history and mystery.
passions like a thousand fires on the face of the sun,
you run light and bright into the night, immortal.
I am but an observer, your witness to the world
that might otherwise rest dull and dumb, uninspired
by ignorance of the fires that dance across your skin.
you are, by any measure, remarkable, perfect padparadscha
regardless of the wit and wisdom of those who see
and do not comprehend your worth and wonder.
you are memory and prophecy, beauty and truth,
the one I have waited for, and will wait for,
even until the end of all things. all things.
for you asked me to wait, to linger, to learn patience
that I might be there when you whisper my name.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.