The Nature Of Time

Picture the spool,

Suspended in mid-air.

Then slowly unraveling

As it gently hits the earth.

Picture the girl.

Utterly at ease.

Head resting gently

On her father’s shoulder.

Picture the wildflower,

Swaying in the breeze.

Deep, unspoken affection

For the sun’s arrival to the day.

I can feel it in my body.

How my head starts

Moving in the shape

Of the infinity ∞

As I write this verse.

Over, under, around, and through.

Soon my neck joins,

My shoulders too.

Over, under, around, and through.

The sensation, so divine.

And soon the feeling of

The spool, the girl, the wildflower,

All move through me,

Are me. Are we.

Oh, but the pleasure

Of this spacious song!

This most precious nothing.

This ever so subtle everything,

Reminding us: Stay wild.

Unbound by linear illusions.

We dance to a melody without a tune.

To a clock that only chimes for love.

We move as if time were art.

I don’t know what that means.

But I feel that it is true.

Like animals who ascertain

Pleasure and pain.

Who smell the notes of the coming rain,

And who remain in the refrain,

Of the song without a name.

And who know the smell of fear

That masquerades as love.

* * *

This is our call, dear ones.

To be in devotion

Of the seemingly simple notes,

Long abandoned

For the symphony.

To move with exquisite care,

Not to disrupt the flow

Of tender hearts,

Softly asking if their love

Is safe to land.

To avoid the temptation

Of a hurried gait.

That moves too quickly

To see, dear ones,

That we, dear ones,

Already have, already are,

Enough.

So if you would,

Dance with me.

To the sound of heartbeats

Drumming.

To the rhythm of footsteps

Lightly running,

Toward the most exquisite

Nothing, something, ecstasy.

While nature slowly hums along.