…then at last It slipped my gasping grasp,
and shot down to that white abyss
where all things go that
Could Have Been,
but are not.
My hand still held that stiff clammy clasp
around the hole It left. How this –
this outcome? How? Flat
I sagged then,
hope hissed out.
Then He came. And spoke, as once before:
“Who grasps will lose. But loose to me…”
The loss done, duty
I writhed and
Groaned: not in regret – but I was sore.
Then I spread my hand. Aloof, He
as at some beauty
gazed, and sent
with His hand
A streak of something bright upward.
Heaven that I falter faint toward,
In a new star glows.
What is it?
Well. He knows.