Sometimes, or rather more often
than day admits,
what we opine, pine, think—
and what the universe means—
is foam: ephemeral,
gliding to be rolled
in spurted rains of mist
to colossal waves.
So being but a spark,
a tiny drop, we fathom
what moves us
from above, from below,
at times glancing at stars
we try to map, to plot
those distant constant lights
on the face of what we see.
Many strive to rip, to rend
the common space, its lasting sense;
some rush to mend the tear,
repair streaming strings of ancient awe.
Thus we play what we learned,
practice what we learned to love,
to hear, to see
amid ceaseless swirls.
The Chinese 看 (kān) suggests—
to see and to visit
may be of the same kith,
the same ken.
For seeing truly someone,
or what truly is,
must be counted
divine boon, gift:
an intermittent, fragile bridge
between each passing path
and life's never-ending resonance.
Sometimes someone we meet
becomes such an opening—
坎 (kǎn),
a sill, a door, a window, a lost home.
And even if one is but a drop,
in that drop, deeper in,
a staying print:
刊 (kān),
the ocean, the universe
you are called to read,
a font of sacred bliss, of awe,
ever to be guarded, cared for:
看 (kān),
and, in this regard,
even to endure:
堪 (kān),
transcending
one's own fleeting drop.
