Tonight Your Face Is Hidden, Yet I Know

by Lynn Michael Martin

Tonight your face is hidden, yet I know
that it is not for lack of presence, though
I search and see you not—for you are here;
for from your being must all being grow.
Still, if from arguments you follow, clear,
neither in mind nor sight do you appear;
I only see your face when you distill
from times past sunset, dropping like a tear.
And at such times I drink, and learn the thrill
of leaves bowed down to waterdrooping fill,
and know you in the sweet unfallen rain
that glimmers over this forbidding hill.
And all the world is mist, or it is pain,
and I distinguish them tonight in vain.


Lynn Michael Martin is slowly learning that he is not the center of the world.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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