|The echo of unnatural insight
It offered her a way
To hide out under open skies,
Lingering at the fringes of crowds
Then disappearing, as if into mist.
No one thought to look in places
She had no intention of staying.
But the gift, well, the gift was a . . . gift
Given by whom she did not know.
Trances came, brief, some bearing lightning strikes
Only insight of the sort
That did not grow in the native soil.
She camped out in the hopes of hearing it,
Sometimes waiting long past expectation
Long past any semblance of balance.
Sometimes it stood mute.
Then there were times when its voice
Surrounded her wherever she went,
Like the echo that sounds off the canyon wall
When the dying Sun plays upon it.
Those were the times!
Those were the joys!
A glimpse of sun-splay,
The echo of unnatural insight,
What could compare?
So, to commune with it
She hid out under open skies,
Skirted the fringe,
Vanishing into ecstacy’s weird richness
Where the world saw nothing at all.
© John Cunyus
October 25, 2006