Before moonrise, night is like ink,
Disorienting to even the most settled soul.
There are the dark places everywhere that catch us off guard,
Things that keep us from the damn certainty of a saint.
Will tomorrow ever arrive?
Will my child get home from school safely?
How could a good and just God ever allow this to happen?
With an expanding universe, racing away from us
At unfathomable speed, where is the mystic?
Out into the void, wonder exceeds our grasp.
It is the about the hows of things now and not so much the whys
We are incapable of the art of “perhaps” and
We believe that kindness is a sucker's bet,
That will most likely end us up in jail.
You ask if we are strong enough to be mystics these days
But I ask are we poets enough?
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