"Nocturne in Silver

Here where the barbed wire struggles in the marsh
And alkali crusts all the weeds like frost,
I have come home, I have come home to hear
The new young frogs that cry along the lost

Wild ditches where at midnight only cows
And fools with eery marsh fire in their brains
Blunder toward midnight. Silvery and clear
Cry the new frogs; the blood runs in my veins

Coldly and clearly. I am mottled, too,
And feel a silver bubble in my throat.
Lock doors, turn keys, or follow in your fear.
My eyes are green, and warily afloat

In the June darkness. I am done with fire.
Water quicksilver-like that slips through stone
Has quenched my madness--if you find me here
My lineage squat and warty will be known."

--Loren Eiseley

This doesn't put me any closer to the mystery, though. What is the mystery--that i so seldom am moved to remember? That any thing abides? That the grammar can shape these unanswerable questions?

...meaning uses itself up. It has to be replentished. From where? The silence that we clear within ourselves. Without it, we cast off old & seek new lovers, new languages, new cities--when nothing really died but the growth of our understanding. For every meaning is infinite...

I imagine myself able to accept any outcome. (What a cruel illusion!)