What I know of the age of the stars,
the quality of empty space,
the depth of oceans
and the dark, blind things that live there,
I could write on the back of a postage stamp.
What I know of the times before,
the decomposition of bone,
the dragging of stone blocks to the pinnacle
of a pyramid, a diet of chestnut meal,
is less than nothing, a wisp of supposition.
What was in the heart of the Conquistadores
or Genghis Khan and his hordes,
the householders who sent children
into the lightless hell of their chimneys,
is beyond imagining.
Where the wind blows,
the ebbing tide ends or the swift rests,
and what I will be when I am not,
are mysteries in the lap of the nature
that shapes us all.
I know only
that I am,
and when I take your hands,
we are too.