Nobody told me;
Not anybody,
… not ever …
That it was,
And always would be,
Until it is told ….
Fully ……. and forever:
That it is all a Story;
A brilliant, powerful Story;
With all the power
Of its Being;
And for the time
Of its Being.

It was never
A lip to lip;
Mind to mind
Communication of
What word you will:
Then, a thought,
Just a thought,
Of its being;
And not being told;
And the ought of it,
To be told,
Came to me.

So then, was I drawn,
To think upon it,
And about it;
And to see the beauty,
And the blinding glory,
Of the fact,
Of the story,
Without which,
None is complete:
To grasp for that
Coruscating, vibrating,
Beauty and magnificence,
That sets all things
At the tips of
Imminent explosion,
Yet holds them back,
That the elegance
And loveliness
Might not erupt,

I am beyond
The point of disclaiming;
For I am knowing,
That the Story is;
And is, what it is:
My avid desires,
Come into fullness,
To the intended goal
Of comprehension.
Because it is born
Of the Storyteller;
I tread in the vortex
Of the Rivers that flow
To — and then from,
All corners of creation;
From the primal time:
From its center,
And its perimeter,
And then back again;
So that the All of It,
Has been enspirited
Within me:
I am in the midst
Of understanding.

Something has settled
Within me;
Faith has it work,
In my depths:
I am aware that,
Knowing so little,
And seeing less;
I was beholding much;
And living more:
Like being in
A wintered wood,
Where the mists
Were deep and damp;
And they swirled
About the trees;
As hiding, and
Then illuminating
The reality,
Of the Beauty.