Colossus, or In Your 9th Decade

There are twenty six letters in our common tongue,
Woven together and ripped apart–
They cannot recreate you.
The jagged smallness that holds the space
Of that which we wish to say
But know not how
Must suffice.

Here you balance, your heart
To the feather
And you are measured.
We know you whole,
Though you have been broken;
You have laced yourself
–And those who have gone through the veil
Laced you–
And we know you whole.

When we move our tongues
And caress the unknowable word–life–
Our eyes set upon your shadow
–For your shadow is all we will hope to reach–
And we pluck from you
Our feeble hope.

If the essence of the unknowable
Were in the number
You are much beyond
Forty seven million three hundred four thousand minutes.
Three hundred sixty hours.
It is strange to us to
Measure you thus. For us
You are
And also
Will Be.

In the crevice that I have torn
Between the you that we know
And the you that you are
I create another. Too colossal
For mere mortal man, so far beyond that
We cannot reach you.
In this we are unfair,
For you are here now
And you would speak
Had we the questions, or words

For us the time waxes and wanes,
And you have only sighed
And nine decades have leaped over.
We have woven in and out
And you have been steady,
And for us
You are
And also
Will Be
And we hold tight to you.

We might ask not
What is life,
But rather, “what is your life?”
And we might weep
Because it is great
And there are only
Twenty six letters in our common tongue,
And we cannot know it.

Of greatness, our patriarch, our
Colossus,
You are
And also
Will be.

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