We cannot own love, only glimpse, feel it touch us, pass through, dwell in us.
We are more or less feeble receivers, picking up signals from an unnown transmitter.
Science is a petty thing before love, for it wants to know,
grasp, possess, dismantle to fragments
harness, claim, proclaim.
Yet science is a thing: wonderful, intricate, quasi-infinite in its macro- and micro- reach.
The fool has said in his heart, there is nothing, no one, no power greater than I.
When this “I” becomes small, it can enter through the eye of a needle
to see what has always been here, hidden in plain view.
What has to be done? No more and no less
than what you and I can do.
We are creatures. Yet in making
we can be raised up like prophets.
Something comes into being
that was not there before,
the miracle of creation re-enacted.
It is seen through the eyes, heard through the ears,
It is lauded and sung
through voice and writing hand.
It is described through the dancing of limbs.
If we are not grateful, we know nothing.
If we are grateful, we know how little we know.