caroline ridgway

I have aged in time,
in rhythm, disordered.

There is no apt objection
to questions born and barren,

deriding bright-eyed simplicity,
curiosity’s unsubtle purr.

This permanent note of pause
crudely etched in my line of sight

—indices of accelerated living,
in contravention of an ending,

all too real and incomplete.
What evidence do you need?

Even absent obvious bloom
you trust the flower’s beauty.

Shielding, shreds of disbelief,
I crave interpretation

of abstract instants, faith
and knowledge intersected,

a continuation, by prayer or proxy,
a weight to gladly carry.