we ponder.
Pull them out,
as from a magician's hat.

Small at first,
the questions–
like the easy trick
of making a quarter appear
from the petal of a child's ear
that makes him smile and run
to his mother and say, "Look what I've got!"

Of spouting a life line of blood-red scarves
from hands that we can swear were empty
the last time we looked,
the answers more cloudy.

How are we going to pull this off,
produce a dove from a sleeve
a hand or head,
another then another–a small flock?
An illusionist will tell you
that handling what is real
takes more care.

But in the end, it's the disappearing
acts that hold our attention.
The mystery of it all.
We want to know why
we can't see the wind
or where meteor showers
come from, where they go,
giving us the perfect
opportunity to ask–
why we're here, then not.