chagall backdrop

The ground
for form superlative,
the ought-to-be
for all what-is.

She, the unmoved mover,
wills potential to shift
to the real.

Her hair pale white as twilight snow,
and tendril long like nebulae,
tied up to protect
from the grab of the bang.

She’s ready,
so tips the domino,
propels the chain.

Sprockets spin,
belts engage,
the engine whirs,
sputters,
then rights itself
to steady state.

Burns core-hot for eons  . . .

Nothing here
is now everywhere,
and nowhere is quite center.

Then everything’s cool.

Planets form:
it’s the dawn
of implicate order.

She hovers breathless
at the edge
of Creation.

Awed by her own
reflection, she rests
but just for a moment.

Essentially love,
she lets her hair down
and leaves us.

She’s the shadow last seen
on the waters.

© Chagall 2013