Pocket Poem #4: Crystal Palace

The ancient scribes loved

words more than anyone else

in the world’s history.

In the turns and crevices

of each word—a hook,

a curve, a sharp or subtle

swerve—they felt they were on

the precipice of infinity.

They handled the words

like jewels. Up to their eyes

they’d raise one, and through

each facet they saw the world

anew, each side a lens

lit by a shaft of light,

revealing another way,

another possibility,

another perspective on

the Great Mystery.

With their vision

they gained the wisdom

to discern the line

between what was real

for all time,

and what was real

only for the time being,

when to declare a truce

on human understanding,

when to confess

that human minds alone

could not do all

the sensing.

They were the priests

and priestesses

of that divine communion

we now call reading

and writing,

and through that

transubstantiation

they enabled the meeting

of thought to thought,

of mind to mind,

of heart to heart

across space and time

among those early earthly

empires and dominions.

It is said that they lived

supremely simply,

utterly poor,

that all they had

were their hoods

and their robes,

their nibs and scrolls.

But only if we could

be that poor now,

filled with their insight,

visions, and yearnings,

then we might realize

how rich we would be, really,

if we lived today

as they did then

in the glory

of their rich poverty.