These poems have a parallel.
Without exception they are written to benefit the reader.
They are family, appearing alone is agony.
They are certain to make sense
the reader is certain to struggle with this.
The privately whispered hopeless prayer.
The celebrated arm of the drowned still outreaching.
One poem pulls the reader into its heart
another flies past mysteriously.
Each is merely an echo or reverberation
of the readers faultless insight.
The village derides these poems; perhaps
the next village will be different?
When they drive roots into the Earth
they may be half-remembered.
When they send plagues and troubles far away,
then they may be granted a nod.
As each new word devours the last,
only the reader will remain.
These poems have a parallel in God's creation.