The Smallest Vibration Has No Master

Because one lives one life

it might lead one to think

that fate’s a straight and narrow fare

that one walks blinded, gagged, and bound

for one inevitable end

obscured by only wanton lack

of a complete and perfect map

behind the lids of one’s closed eyes.

 

Open them.

 

From where you set your step

is whence the path proceeds,

but the ways of fate are numbered

like the digits of a hand.

God’s fist is loosed to roll the die,

to pluck the single shining ray

reflecting on a far-off place

to light upon an open eye.

 

What do you see?

 

A song sang in a distant hall

is reaching its crescendo–

listen.

 

The pitch pervades the rolling air

cascading, growing ever fainter,

’til the quietest emphatic whisper

touches on a listening ear

and sounds a single roving note.

 

What do you hear?

 

A chunk of frigid rock and ice,

the amnion of cosmic birth,

hurtles through the upper air,

burns to a trifling, meager speck,

and falls upon a far-flung sphere;

put a bare foot to the ground.

 

The gentlest wave

emanates on impact,

permeates the earth,

bounces off its iron core,

echoes to the surface,

passes through your sole,

travels to your chest,

and drowns

in the beat of your heart.

 

What do you feel?

 

The smallest bit of being mocks at destiny.

The quantum has no determined course.

The atom is free.

 

Fate’s foil

is in the dim,

the faint,

the gentlest palpitation,

the microscopic specks of dust

only having consequence

in a moment when all else is stilled.

 

Blot out the sun.

Silence the drone.

Halt the turning of the earth.

 

What do you want to do?