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How come that river flows as sweetly as
the now that brings me, leaning against this wall,
so close, so still? The sun that surveys all
moves not, yet matches light to surfaces
that breeze's brushing finely finishes,
pushing forward, drawn by the solar call
to what is there. Who cannot see withal
his life's extent, small time that lavishes
the present? Or pursue the liquid fortunes
of the tidal flow, the bobbing green bottle,
the mallards' firm resistance, and compound
a paradigm as of a peace new found,
the spell of potency as on a moon's
blank surface - that makes of all what no thought'll? |
