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That it all sprung upward, like the bursting
into blossom of tradition in time's quiet garden;
the sequence of petals from within the bud
expanding at a snail's pace, leading the pageant
of the moment manifest with lightness
of a turning page into descriptions of itself;
that the texture of events so delectable
has but one sensuous, call it fleeting feeling,
of limited extent so maximal
in cherishing even as it's lost and clung to
in continuity, as a glimmer
in memory, is for some the only meaning.
But eternity is where we're truly at
all the time: and heaven and hell is that.
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