Lightning falls,
thunder rises,
rain speaks.
And when the cloud
that bears them all is gone,
everything surprises with
a coronet of color and wetness.
Out of nothing so it comes:
the shy, shallow gleam,
warm and dripping down
the frosted window panes.
There, the thing we hardly see
in some corner,
chipped, half concealed,
washed with rain.
There, the least substantial,
so hardest to believe.
A darkness fluttering on the void,
the plantless seed.
Out of nothing, out of this
proceeds the birth,
a world multi-layered,
dense and full.
Listen to the beats of rain.
Let the light strike. Feel the wetness,
cloud after generous, chaotic cloud.
And it is there, yet again,
again in our hands, new and shining,
something, where emptiness
had stood alone.
There, a world of light
dragged from the bones of dark,
of endless Eves protecting
a man’s heart.
It is from this,
from nothingness
and from nothing else,
that we must make our start.
As clouds pass, so should we,
and in their mired mists,
find fire, and with it
make a start.
In the beginning, nothing,
but nothing is enough.
