A Pointless Question

Dec. 31, 2012

A Pointless Question

How did we get here?

My room,
     a tiny closet of a space,
Drowns in letters and books,
     Wrinkled shirts,
          Passed down through time and thrift stores,
     Crinkled photographs
          Pulled out of shoe boxes,
     Flecks of dirt and dust
          that clung to my shoes
               and now rest in the corners by my door.
My house is full of strangers,
     A Mexican poet
          with his words read in Italy,
     A young Chilean ghost
          whispering from the corner room,
     An aging woman
           reading the Bible
               and nothing else,
And the house sags and cracks,
     Sunk into the earth
          long before we got here.

How did we get here?

Does the tree ask how it was planted,
     The stone how it was formed,
          The river from whence it flows?

What a human thing,
     to wonder.