A sleepless force summoned me
to the belly of the whale.
Inside, of many mansions, one
was fashioned for my shape.
The whale and I were both brought forth
by the hand that cast the lot.
It rose slowly in the air,
a thousand days and nights unfolding.
It was a priestly hand before the flock,
unmatched in its cunning.
Long before, even as we slept,
the fibers and the threads
of our lives, great and small,
were brought together, and entwined
with the entrails of dusk
ghostly and luminous above the mast.
Greg Teran practices law in Boston during those rare moments when he is not shoveling snow. One can’t help but have a mind of winter these days.