It isn’t everyday the soul is seen
that when it is the owner is possessed
of it no more than when the seer said
no truth can ever run past further facts
than what has in the course of dialogue
been laid. The ear whose listening was heart
opened its bosom to the laden mouth
by noises mostly self-accountable.
The kindness did not care that time might need
a longer reckoning it was enough
a start to let the line of narrative
plumb into veins and arteries of thought
to let it pause, pulsate and then proceed
to disabuse the clogging of its pulse.
It may appear that misery has found
a long sought-after lover of the warts
the company unearthed as clear as light.
There is no joy in listening, the act
a part of therapy, a silent art
that doesn’t push but pulls the string untight.
The parcel is the portion of the pact
unsaid, unwritten, only birthed at once
that conversation after warming up
like water took its flow along the ride.
Discoveries are rife as well as scarce
as serendipity occasions twice
for gifts or goodnesses as right as rain
it isn’t everyday the soul is seen.
Abraham de la Torre