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.