The string vibrates at a pitch so low
you barely hear it
but the ripples
spread to your edges and flood the air.
You see the wavering of future forms
(like ghosts)
before they appear
in the forest of coincidence
and chaos. Moss grows
over your premonitions, silencing
the echo of curbed words. Only
your quickened pulse speaks
of mysteries revealed. Your mind’s eye
blinks, closing around the private
recognition of success
and failure. For a split second
the burning hoop of time
is visible
as all previous moments
converge.
This trick
could not have been achieved
under different circumstances. Although
you might have shaken
some other magic
out of your sleeve,
made it whole.
We catch our reflection in random
mirrors, assembling a mosaic
of meaning. But every so often
we draw a card
from our stack of fortunes
and grasp its value
before it is turned.
An occasion that defies
proof; it simply rings in tune
with the remaining score.
Viki Peitchev 