Look at it all together, there are
A thousand miles of snow and field Of thin, leafless trees up north, A million voles and owls, concealed, And all that together seem to make A pattern. Or do they really? At least The pattern that we think we see, The fields in our own minds released. On the other hand, focus On each vole, its every flea, Its hole, its family, its seeds, Its every joy or agony. The frightful vulnerability Of children randomly born to mad Parents—some percent will Survive—or the desert nomad Feeling that the sky and sand Are blessed for him, and that his way Has been ordained both emerge From the same ocean and its spray. There is no chair. It is merely a pulse, A wavicle. All there is Is the all. The chair or molecule Is merely the apparent fizz. God only sees the all. I guess There is no chair. The all He sees Inhabits every chair, even if It’s just a shadow on the breeze.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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