Kristie Kachler

The camera eye
closing some
four thousand Sundays ago 
in on unremarkable
husks of wild carrot
or possibly yarrow
that the hoar frost 
in veiling unveiled.
It’s unromantic but 
their union was weather, 
unwilled conditions,
one cold form sparking 
another. As I think 
of witness, of being
the witness’s witness,
braiding time, I see myself
seeing the world intact
as mirage, my two
persistent hoods inevident
through tricks of mind,
so every modest 
wholeness grows
to filter intervals
of dark with light,
next meeting next
until I’m known 
before birth while 
dreamed beyond life.
Belief releases the shutter, 
faith operates the archive.