A Rumination
Fragment
Published on September 8, 2020
A Rumination
Fragment
How fertile are these hours pregnant with anticipation,
The air crackles with silences that bear the news
Of some imminent arrival or a hidden working of Thee,
All seems a marvel, just to be is a benediction;
Like painted mimes the world floats on mind’s screen,
Alive yet hollow as if their prime mover is not seen,
Only a little desire and pinch of necessity drives these,
I find no deeper breath, no high ideals on these visages,
Only the dull cold routine subjugating all faithfully;
O where are Thy abundances, where are Thy splendours,
Must Thou wait yet, is it not Thy hour yet,
Of Thy coming and the possession of all Earth,
This last patch that hast not felt Thy fuller light?