Will I Know It Then? A poem about uncertainty and our endless search for truth

By Michael Cerreto

What is it I see?

Laying on wet leaves

after summer's fever.

Among twigs splintered and fallen

under harsh Fall rains.

What is it I see?

If I give it a name,

will I know it then?

Is it "rubble"?

Is it a "jewel"?

Is it a "sign"?

I wonder.

Will I know it then?

If I photograph it?

Bathed in sunlight,

with shadows flickering.

Submerged in the sky's golden glow

at sunset.

Like heaven's outstretched hand.

Will I know it then?

If I touch it?

Weighty, and ridged,

chilly, and moist.

Pressure forged it solid,

a century's tale.

Will I know its purpose here?

If I sing to it?

Rhythmic tones,

echos of sweet beats.

Laid down as percussive waves,

flowing through the vast hollow.

Will I know it then?

If I feel emotion for it?

Love and fear pull at my joints.

Worry and hope tug in my gut.

Laughter, and sorrow,

a void

Will I know it then?

If I smell it?

Sweet, diffused, and rich.

Memories surface

of sprawling Nebraska fields.

Hay baled, stored, and the smell of harvest complete.

Will I know it then?

If I throw it?

Out of sight,

among the fallen, uprooted trees,

along the tired stream.

Does its meaning travel with it?

Does it change?

Will I know it again?

Like a potter's wheel,

collective meaning creates its own shape in the end.

Molded, shifting, flowing from truth to truth.

Creating new meaning with each touch of clay.

Never the same.

Do we ever truly see reality?

Will I know it then?