My knowledge extends only to what I know. I know upon finishing this poem I will get up from my desk, turn off the lamp and see the growing light of the greater light spreading across the porch making the things of this world distinct. Later, I will step out into that light satisfied that the structures of the world are in place to make it go around one more day, or at least for the time it takes me to drive to work, place the lunch I made the previous night on the break room counter and sit down at my desk. But first I know I will finish this poem.
I said, "The conversation at last night's party showed happiness lives in the minds of the decadent few." She said, "Yes. It also revealed the desperate need to create possibilities for new pools of laughter." Thinking aloud, I said, "The beginning of wisdom is just a monster of a text to digest in one gathering." She replied, "Human beings have been gathering for hundreds of thousands of years in dark spaces." I added, "And feverishly painting animals on the walls of caves and cheering on their favorite teams." She said, "Hope only appears to narrow when those places are closed and decay into the ruin that time brings."
Between running for the sacred peace of a mourning dove cooing on the fence and the frantic cleaning and straightening in preparation for the arrival of strangers, the way forward blurs into rapid motion, into a newly awakened day where prayerful preparation can wait and, instead, the view from out the train window at the rushing cityscape and countryside gives way to the question, What do you see?
Participation in abundant life whirls around having your name on the list - not posted on a wall - where steps circling the center of all revolving doors take you in and out of measures not on any other timeline but yours.