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The universe has a randomness
that we can only submit to
and the maps of our life stories
have an ambiguity
that we cannot negotiate.
We weave a running stitch
of Morse dots and dashes
on the fabric of truth
in tune
with the syncopated rhythm
of the elements
seemingly at will,
only to get lost in it
again and again.
To give oneself over
to that music
more primal than rock and roll
more ad lib than the blues
more mysterious than an operatic aria
is to simply live.

There are patches of cold
and loaves of fire
knots of purpose
and waves of freedom
hemispheres of questions
atoms of dreams
memories fluid as teardrops
consequences immovable as stars
and evolutions
wafting through time
like the smell of boiling stew
diffusing from a window
of a Johannesburg abode
at noontime

and then there’s love

I don’t pretend
to understand
but I feel
snugly ensconced
in an overwhelming thankfulness
to Him who brought me here
The Hand Who Wrote It All

because out of the
fumbling-infant step-ing,
ways of the prevailing chaos
I found you