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.