An evening of Myth and Poetry

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February 1, 2017  in Trinidad, CO

annette meserve writing storyteller poet author fiction flash short stories novels

The Gallop
The ground underfoot is uncertain,
growing thinner
more fragile,
more unpredictable
with every pounding
thundering step,

But, then again,
the fabric of the universe
has never been as sure
as we would wish it,
has never behaved
as we would have it do
has never been as solid,
as linear,
as constant
or consistent
as we would like to think it is.

Still, we try logic,
try to follow straight along,
try to understand,
investigating the questions
no matter their answers found,
breed more questions,
describing more and deeper mysteries
as we go,

And we keep asking,
and it is good that it is so,
good that we persist
in our headlong gallop
to grasp the many ways
of manipulating this magic
and all the magics that come after,

and because it is good,
we will certainly keep up the race
for as long as we are natives here.  

But what if that time
isn't all that long,
our generations spent
not coming,
those things around us
turning threadbare,
losing elasticity,
the fiber separating,
with so many footsteps upon it,
with so many pounding hoofbeats
wearing at the weave. 

What if this reality
that we hold so tightly to,
wasn't meant to last?
Was only a stopping place
for us to learn and rest and play?

If this is the case,
and I'm almost sure it is,
it's natural to be afraid,
to mourn the ending
of this dear and wondrous world,

But all is not lost,
for there is a light,
hanging just there,
just under
the stained-glass prism
of the sky,
the dome's facets not boundaries
but portals,
the bright moon waiting,
just there,
waiting to guide us on,

For remember,
and it's been said before,
or maybe not yet,
But remember just the same 
that we are made materially 
from the molecules of exploding suns,
our souls merely points of light
drawn together into constellations,
held in orbit 
by our collective gravitational pull.

We are the dust of stars,
meant for scattering upon the solar winds,
meant to leave this place,
maybe to come here,
or for the first time,
no one can know which,
for the ground here is uncertain,
the fabric unraveling.

The warp unspools
only to let the weave go
wherever it will
we the tiny motes upon its strands,

And, as the dust,
as the riders,
and the runners,
and the workers of unknown magics,
we will come here again,
or have already,
I'm almost sure of that too, 

we, the creatures of the universe,
the creators of this place,
we will invent it all again
and it will all be new,
new to the cosmos,
new to us,

another beautiful world
through which we will gallop headlong 
into whatever will be. 

                               ©2019 Annette Meserve


on the Shelf

art credit: "M.O.Homestead" by Gordon Lucero