IF

To stuff all the world in boxes,
is to bury every enigma
under a scroll of black and white images,
neatly tying up every dangling fragment
in a bow of theories
so the ghostly inner voice of if
becomes muffled
until you don’t hear the moans
from reason’s specter
lament
the questions left as gray thorns
sticking in the eyes.

Beyond the mind’s wrappings
dwells the soul’s thoughts,
able to gaze where cartons can not reach,
not needing to use logic’s tape
for holding together every puzzle,
even when pieces are missing.

Trusting more to hands unseen
felt as a wind,
which always brings gifts of mystery
you appreciate for the hues of irony,
not fretting they don’t always reveal their truths.

Happy in the willingness to believe
what eludes the microscope of deduction
becomes just another postcard from heaven