We condense onto the surface of the world

Like dew drops appearing on spring lawns,

a manifestation of  life’s will to continue



Only later to disappear

into dark loam,

the emptiness of our absence


by new green grass.


Thus new growth is

at once our legacy and,

the beauty into which we vanish.


Standing between these moments,

like the ornate bridgework,

connecting Manhattan to New York,

like a visitor  watching an antique clock,

It’s giant works inside

the central edifice of a clock tower

in some elegant European square


Watching the dance of wheels and cogs,

levers and sections and struggling,

to understand how it could possibly work.

So have I been seeking in the patterns of motion

an understanding of myself.


Now I know

That I know not

What thing I am

Nor what it finally is

that I am doing.


Only that my movement, when I am true

Is great joy,  sending it’s chimes,

echoing,  marking the moments of my life,

and, that, it is enough.


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