Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl <br />themselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the <br />way to create current, making of their unison (turning, re- <br /> infolding, <br />entering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a <br />visual current, one that cannot freight or sway by <br />minutest fractions the water's downdrafts and upswirls, the <br />dockside cycles of finally-arriving boat-wakes, there where <br />they hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into <br />itself (it has those layers) a real current though mostly <br />invisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing <br /> motion that forces change-- <br />this is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets <br />what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing <br />is to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more by <br />each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself, <br />also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something <br />at sea. Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through <br />in the wind, I look in and say take this, this is <br />what I have saved, take this, hurry. And if I listen <br />now? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only <br />something I did. I could not choose words. I am free to go. <br />I cannot of course come back. Not to this. Never. <br />It is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.<br /><br />Jorie Graham<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prayer/
