Mercy Tolentino Steenwyk

“last night, the question
a spirit of centuries old
came whispering
many stories untold
of things past, things present
and in the fold.

several wakings
several faces of the dark
in the making
each glimmer of day so bright
each measure of depth in the night
light and dark
dark and light
oaks twisted and bent
to catch and frame
the fleeting movement they’re meant.

of my million steps
marching through
beating the rhythm
of what must be
of what cannot be.

the circuitous movement
following minutes
hours cutting through
a staccato lost
a new melody is borne
the last glimmer of
light and dark
dark and light
Is mourned
completely
violently.

in my trek following
the flood of lights
following the unknowable
path of the night
save for the twinkle
dancing in its flight.
save for the Hand that moves
the waking and the living
the dying until
the beat is bound
and time skips happily about.

last night, the question
a spirit of centuries old
came whispering
many stories all told
of things past, things present
and in the fold.”