The Question

did I put my finger
in many waters
and did the ripples spread
from the centre
to the edges
and wet the grass?

did the water
feed the grass
as it flowed over the
small thin blades, making
the difference
between life and death?

and did my hand
touch any skin, make
an impression that lasted
amid the forceful
pull and tug, the jostle
of changing winds?

did any word
that left my mouth
and met the eyes
of the person opposite
go in, press in
press home, and rise?

did the breath
I bore, and the days I
treaded, the creaking
boards in unison crying
my weight, inflate
any lung and limb but mine?

and did my fingering mind
in its probing of
small spaces, its easing
of facts, its splicing light
help any seed to germinate
in the dark, and grow?