Nobody told me;
Not anybody,
... not ever ...
That it was,
And always would be,
Until it is told ....
Fully ....... and forever:
That it is all a Story;
A brilliant, powerful Story;
With all the power
Of its Being;
And for the time
Of its Being.

It was never
A lip to lip;
Mind to mind
Communication of
What word you will:
Then, a thought,
Just a thought,
Of its being;
And not being told;
And the ought of it,
To be told,
Came to me.

So then, was I drawn,
To think upon it,
And about it;
And to see the beauty,
And the blinding glory,
Of the fact,
Of the story,
Without which,
None is complete:
To grasp for that
Coruscating, vibrating,
Beauty and magnificence,
That sets all things
At the tips of
Imminent explosion,
Yet holds them back,
That the elegance
And loveliness
Might not erupt,
Prematurely.

I am beyond
The point of disclaiming;
For I am knowing,
That the Story is;
And is, what it is:
My avid desires,
Come into fullness,
To the intended goal
Of comprehension.
Because it is born
Of the Storyteller;
I tread in the vortex
Of the Rivers that flow
To -- and then from,
All corners of creation;
From the primal time:
From its center,
And its perimeter,
And then back again;
So that the All of It,
Has been enspirited
Within me:
I am in the midst
Of understanding.

Something has settled
Within me;
Faith has it work,
In my depths:
I am aware that,
Knowing so little,
And seeing less;
I was beholding much;
And living more:
Like being in
A wintered wood,
Where the mists
Were deep and damp;
And they swirled
About the trees;
As hiding, and
Then illuminating
The reality,
Of the Beauty.