• Jennifer Strube

For All That We See and Yet Don’t

An Ode to the Mystery of Wonder

All we ever see is a sliver.

That is all we ever get.

It’s the truth, really, for the night is dark above the skyline and the frozen

dirt beneath us lies dormant, asleep.

The coyotes howl their peace through the twilight and, unsure if they are friend or foe,

still, we day-dwellers clasp hands and dream ourselves awake.


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All we ever see is a half-sillouette.

That is all we ever get.

It’s the truth, really, standing side by side,

mirror-images of kindred opposites,

the sun a combusting night fire,

igniting the light of star dust we can not fully grasp.

And still, we hope.


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All we ever see is the fullness.

And the ways our restless hearts pound our daydreams awake.

Illuminating the hidden specks of our surface living, the ways we’ve become a

stranger to our very own selves.

Out in the open, the wonder is out, to greet us and swallow our pride.

And still, we fail to believe it’s an option.


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All we ever see is changing and returning and all we ever have is here.

Reduced to joy, the timeless balance between choice: your wonder, your sweat,

your possibilities: the long considered options of all that we already hold

when the odds are against you but

the Light is abundant and

still. And still, and still…

The night falls still where false hope is not false

nor a sliver a sliver

nor the full circle all that we must know.

So what is it you will do with your one wild and untamed life?

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