Just before the morning wakes up the day
I have thought of every second what to say
As dawn to which a thought can be compared
And it brings fortune sunlight to the years
Darkness will return again is certain
Wander and encroach by innate pattern
Stoked by rail failure or betrayal
To Hear what private wisdom knows to tell
Of Silence in the silence overwhelmed
Remained and as a constant came to fall
Along the ridges of experience
Creation dividing heaven and hell
The clocks of all time with their hands held still
Break through to reach for Morning’s golden wheel.
on the thread of a moment its angle
suspended over the sieve of the flow
where time takes its substance from reservoir
silent and still, the volume is equal
harmony believes a flower grows crown
from underneath the arches of the sun
and sun-like that it lives it lives to sew
hems from every petal’s face and sinew
water that is author of the stylus
eye of every violet ultra fine stems
that grow as grow invisible to time
imitating aspens for their forage.
A bird comes to mind by power of word
a song for every sound to sing the hour
falling from the branches where the bird stands
its gentle pulsing song drums on the leaves
the branches form an auditorium
the trunk becomes a flute played on the keys
that wood and wind and delicate pestles
blend from dustless sparkles sounds of beauty.
