Days pass when I forget the mystery.
Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own ignored solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its
antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtiers,
wearing
their colored clothes; caps and bells.
And then
once more the quiet mystery
is present to me, the throng’s clamor
recedes, the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all,
let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than a void: and that, O Lord,
Creator, Hallowed one, You still,
Hour by hour sustain it.
