The History of a Prophet

I was holding you once,
like a falling leaf holds the breeze
or like summer holds a sunset
and winter, a sunrise.

I was holding you, you not holding me,
but standing at a distance there
wondering
if you felt any of what I said you’d feel.

I was holding you, and God was holding you
tighter than I ever could.
He held, gazed solemnly at into my eyes,
his like spinning wheels,
and pulled.

I was holding you like a snake
holds his mouth on a piece of prey;
like a vision holds the mind of the prophet
in the midst nights without sleep.

I was holding you; I never held you,
but I watched the end of days
and lingered on the question,
stumbled upon an answer,
and tasted the ache of life.