There is a moment, tired and quiet,
that lingers in the inside of a person
drawing symbols on the inner walls
in fingerpaints and blunted charcoal.
People ask for things, in passion
in passing fancy, in desperate need...
people ask, and they ask, and ask
loud and bleating sacrificial lambs.
Why must it be for passing joy, floating
through the air like prancing butterflies
from marigold to globemallow and lilac -
fleeting things no sooner saw then gone
There are symbols I've been reading
symbols that tell a story of things
more than marigolds and nectar -
symbols to connect impossibilities.
It is a quiet jargon of signs, of angles
all very sad and abundantly peaceful
that somehow caused a reckoning
and set me at odds with reality.
It is all so very beautiful, and angry
the way a newborn enters the world
the way some seem to leave it
full of empty and so very meaningful.
Longfellow saw, he called them a bird,
a tide's rise and fall, a simple moment
that reached out quietly from the ages