by Rev. Analisa Domenica
Even through the smoky haze of charred and pungent mind ash,
It is clear to see
And sometimes painful to watch
The writhing throes of agony he endures
In order to know.
He screams and cries and wails
Proclaiming he will quit soon
(“I’ll end this search! I’m done! I cannot get there!”)
Because this feverish exhaustion of seeking
May just be getting the better of him.
On some afternoons, still,
He knocks at the door
Of someone who appears to know.
This one who appears to know
Has burned all of her books
Taken her certificates down
And protests (a bit too loudly perhaps)
To have only the knowledge of nothing at all.
She shares this lack of knowledge
Along with cups of peppermint-nettles-nothing tea.
Sometimes the visitor cries hard into his hands,
Wracking, sobbing, lowing tears
Coming from his belly full of dredged-up grief,
Sometimes because of his unresolved joy.
Occasionally he laughs out loud at his own folly
And is precious and tender and earnest, if nothing else.
Mostly he comes for the tea.
This is known by the one who knows nothing
Based upon always finding the empty cup,
Saucer and spoon
Placed mindfully and elegantly
On the table by the door.
We kindly invite your comments below. Rev. Analisa Domenica can also be reached directly through her website, www.AnalisaDomenica.com.