Not your own secret. God's secret. He has
divulged as bundles of bindles from birth; playing
out like a magic trick-- climax, wonder, sprung from dearth; straying
has not lied nor mocked; though infants' ears seem caricature, though
your patterned elegance delights him before the knit twists your splay.
By you and yours -- not ever most-- unraveled, unbaffled, unended-- ever sailing the coast.
Umbrage and petulance and sophomoric semantic polyvalence can
strut and fret an hour-- as if all is soliloquy and the tale all conspiracy,
wrench and fray a life-- as if all answers are indeed insult added to earnestness.
No conundrum to be coddled, but a mystery succinct to be swaddled,
then too expansive to be explained and expressed by earth,
that fecundity chuckling at numbers and valuations for worth,
that stout husbandry that makes tomorrow its girth
an exquisitely singular-- resonant with mirth,
a coupled symmetry rhymed and reciprocating, both in just another birth.
A journeyman cast off his boots? Embroidery far too fine for thread?
An iambic idiot ever empty theyself of first phonemes and folderol and nothing said?
A gift give nothing-- but to the ungrateful some slight and mean pretext to preen?
Your question his own,
a shallow of splendor in a single soft palm.
His answer your dignity,
both hands overflow and run deep under calm.
Not obvious-- even first burped of the horizon's fine verity,
asked over and over, like footsteps for summit and vista and sea.