The Span of the Bow
Praying hands and bra-ced brains
perfect the act of making do.
The reach, the grasp, the stretch, the strain,
all unattempted, lost in the pursuit
of unpursued stasis.
But the blithe mind eyes the sky,
and glee springs free with ease.
Buoyant, ebullient, on the wing,
the bird’s-eye mind’s eye sings
to no one in particular.
Happy to be and eager for naught,
contented, full to brimming.
The gilded slope and nascient lights,
Die Tannenbäume trimming
themselves out of the dusk.
Patterns forming of themselves
is the way of things at the edge of forever.
To believe or to challenge is beside the point
when never is always and always is never
what you expect it to be.
A snapshot freezes so it won’t do
for capturing the momentless vision.
Condensing ethereal into material
exposes buffoonery in elision
of time out of space.
Unfolding blossom, unshielded hello!
And casting lot among the present.
Being the camera instead of the trigger,
finding profound the merely pleasant
illuminates the soul.