Wearily I polish my crystal ball heart for the next eager voice
I fan the pasteboard rectangles and ruffle them
I reach down deep inside the lucent well and focus
weary mind’s-eyes on prophetic pictures,
and every stripe of human condition,
familiar and unknown.
I comfort and cajole,
awaken unconscious beings to the truth
that invisibly, inexorably circles them.
This reaching down exhausts me,
so that when I lift my weary eyes away from these visions
I am too tired to know my own life.
The doctor’s child is sick,
the shoemaker’s unshod
and the prophetess terminally ignorant of her own fate.
© 2012 RC deWinter
How reaching too deeply into other people’s lives often leaves one unable to see one’s own life clearly.