In Nature of Being

So to be here is to end a soundless weeping?
To silence the drift of autumn leaves and whispers of wheat fields
is to call, over and over to a listless world
and beckon the fallen petals and remain; motionless.
Transitioning from a time near, in a world of surmise,
to a time present in times potential
is to remain a constant possibility within this speculation.

Breath of summer breeze speaks of a weakening power,
a memory meaningless to times inability to contain our own time.
It seems, with age, a deterioration of a soul no longer becomes bitter
but a fruition with a ineffable joy, absent of any primitive fear.
What was once many loves beating in ones heart,
sleepless hearings of an intelligent memory,
is now a passage to the dwelling of that heart.

To the poet, he wrote, words mark but a moment of this mind,
Lost amongst the mourning who breathe merely that moment’s sudden fury.
For the past is a current destroyer of the presents history,
recovered by it’s own agony, unqualified to be a mere monument.
To the poet, it is in the ink, and the paper, and the hand that hint-
hint at the defeated actions and otherwise movement
to achieve happiness through right action.

It is to be here, now; resistant to past or future, existence in spheres,
whether submissive and alone or unwilling and naked,
one must forget trying, and leave the continual sustenance
to the life of momentous earth.