Ode to Story
By Ian Galey
Winding and weaving away
Of things far off, ancient and dear,
I find my heart moved to a point,
The point just before despair.
It has won my affection, but why?
Why do I treasure the sigh of the hills?
The whiteness of moonlight;
The rolling deep waves in fathomless fathoms;
The arid cold air lilted with fog
Crowning a mountain, many and mighty;
The depth of the earth, the fineness of morning?
The serenity of light.
Ah yes, the golden light.
Falling as shafts from the heavens above.
From the heavens above.
Perhaps this is why.
For the beauty of heaven is such
That it is ancient and newborn and now:
Eternal and fused with the light.
It is far off and it is near.
It is almost,
But not yet.
Reality of realities, the everlasting song that brings delight,
The story of stories fraught with the sound of life.
Why do we love the story so?
Because it is more real than the realness of earth,
As bright as the brightness of gold in the sun,
More delicious and restful than the bread of leaven,
For story was born in heaven.