She took the part
That broke her heart
And soon would take her life

But the pirouettes
Help her forget
She's dancing on a knife

form forms a bubble around the most profound things
tension keeps most out and that keeps the surfactant surface round
like a dogwood blooming or a twig dripping
dewdrops in the morning
or an insane writer performing acrobatic bounces
on the surface of the paper trampoline
trying to figure out
Rorscach ink blots forming images
on his memory
bouncing round in similes
metaphors trying his patience to the limits
finding balance on the paper thin
edges
the finite experiences
his imagination pushing him
to every limit

Now is
what
never is.
Can't you see it?

Now is just
a suspension,
the bend before
the wave,
not the flow
nor the wave
but
the suspended
breath
of a perpetual
motion.

Winter is here.
Its romantic
******,
frozen death,
nights that linger.
Yet,
arms crying
into windy skies,
trees carry
a pregnancy,
sprouts
like a plague
ripping
every branch.
Oh yes,
spring
is coming.

Now is never.

Quietly,
silently,
let us watch
as time bends,
unfolding
what was
and what
for sure
will be.
Quietly,
silently,
let us ride
that bend
and know
that
never
is now.