Augustine’s dream

I see my soul’s image as I exhale the chill,
And a child digging in sand as the sea recedes.
He takes up his pail, scrambles toward heaven’s spill,
Fills it and returns making his bucket empty.

When I ask he says he is saving what he can.
Before the ocean pours through the far horizon. I
Ask “Are you trying to do what has no solution:
No ocean can fit in this little hole in the sand.”

The child stops and his hair swags, as in a picture
Soaring seagull swirl above him like A wreath tiara,
And says: “Impossible as your chore is to wed words
With human grief? If but Mount them for heart and souls release?”

My tongue was caught between awe and power, heard
What I, in belief, could but know like one knows speech.