The Omega Rite: A poem on the beginning as the end and the end as the beginning

“The Omega Rite” 

The creation stretches its fingers to pen
its dicta in no uncertain terms:

 

This is the end. There is no
end.

This is the beginning. There is no
beginning.

You will see. But you will not
see it unless you
see
it
written.

See it.
Read it.                       

Read now

the foaming waves’ calamitous breaks,

the euphony of humpbacks sounding
as otters give chase among the kelp,

the surging howl of the wind
at the end of the typhoon’s whip,

upon glaciers melting into streams
their mineral messages roaming free,

the air bereft of honey bees
who labored among bluebells and fear,

the peepers’ sinking chirps
in the mud near a kestrel’s perch,

the hissing of copperhead scales
chiffing where boots walk Appalachia’s floor,

the sex-crazed cicadas’ caterwaul
giving lives once more
to hickory, maple, and sycamores,

the ribbons we stream as eyes meet
our loved one’s spirits so bright
so splendid, so right,
so realized when we climb the wall
and ford the river one stone at a time
to gift our lives,

to others.

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