A Gesture Of Meaning
D
Daniel Brick
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I uncurl the tight fist of my right hand.
It relaxes. I raise my right arm slowly,
fingers stretched and pointing upward.
Pointing to what? Perhaps a trace of
moonlight or even of starlight
just barely visible. Or perhaps
my hand seeks to grasp a pocket
of air to bring it closer
to earth so it spreads the purity
of the high heavens over our valley
of existence. What am I to believe?
Is believing in something higher and better
the answer to the riddle of our lives?
Or does the answer lie scattered everywhere,
and we must pick up the pieces and assemble
a whole that has never existed before?
Is that what humans are meant to do? Is that
the goal of stretching our grasp and grabbing
whatever we can bring into our ken so that
our brief lives display a redeeming beauty?
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