The ocean blued,
dashed across black
rocks...melancholia
coupled with sighed
relief.

Before a ration
of time memorized
a life...knew it by heart,
blessed and released it.
To perfectly forget...
the precedence of peace
and silence, then given a name.

Every time you
die in me, and
I die in you...we
somehow come
to self-embrace.
Wrapping a pair
of arms, a pair of
wings... across a
free falling flight.

The ground spoke
with a sound of
feet, the ground
of being spoke
without a sound.

The naked trees
wore contoured
sunshine, as the
wind wondered
perfectly at them.
Then there came
a sense of seasons,
of surviving seasons--
watching them...calling
them by name.
This is a privilege,
to survive a cycle, and
call it by name.
To call them seasons
seems softer than cycles...
more long drawn.
Though, the fidelity of
their force is far beyond
our being seasoned.
We should not forget
that we're being watched
by a greater cycle, a
greater season.
Perspective is the luxury
afforded levels of consciousness...
forget-me-nots of wisdom.

A passage in perfect
stillness...as untold
masses gather to
behold the truth
of their being.
The life of a year--
coming up, and
popping as a bubble
from deep down...
surfacing new life.