Revelation Will Best Unfold

by M. G. Michael
 
Near the huge clock, in Piata Romana,  
The old man they see him, all of them, day and night. 
He sits with episcopal dignity as if on a throne. 
Alone. Like a word. 
One afternoon he reaches into his sack coat 
And pulls out a small evergreen. 
With outstretched hands he offers it to a little child 
She, alone, notices that from the wrist up, 
His arms are covered in thick white down. 
They both beam. The old man remembered things 
The little child delighted in her imagination. 
Revelation will best unfold between the cracks  
Like light, which pours through the tight spaces of rocks. 
The others in their multitude, all of them, day and night, 
Notice. Nothing.