Going To You

I couldn’t sleep. What could I do?
I went to you.
I go as often as I can,
As often as élan emerges:
Like a spy whose operation purges,
Does not tell (well,
                 those detected and elected).
I ought to come to you more often.  
True to form you’re there to soften
In one way or t’other – like a mother.

Is it just interpretation, fancy, brain synaptic,
Watching happenings?
Often ending as I would wish they should,
Seeing failings patched, detached,
Improving slowly once they’re hatched?

If I had been born to preach,
Joined synagogue or church,
Become rabbi, Mormon, Witness, priest,
Going north, south, west and east
At least I’d feel I landed.

But I’m silent and agog,
A secret seeker through the fog of worldly turbulence
And tastes that tempt, participating in the dance
With casualness, no casualty, but taking in causality as One,
It being April one, a day of fun at fooling friends –
Supercool, I face and grace it with my presence.

Going To You 4.1.2017
God Book II; Circling Round Reality; Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin