The mime of fateful silences
transcribe...as cross-ventilated
corridors wafting the articulate
voice of a ghost...an addendum
of whisperings.
By these pliant leagues...under
the say so of seas.

Of time, to meditate upon, will not be the meditation
begun with.
Time thought to itself: I shall be short and concise,
long and imprecise, and in the middle you are...
presently.
To trickle less into more--more into less...for what
wanes documents scarcity.
Drinks the bitter drop, and elongates a weary grin.
Time assumes the rite of Way, as we wait submissively...
and in accumulation of wait on wait--we wait no more.
Our turn is taken up, in turn.
Why the trilogy of a past, present and future?
What Physician unifies light outer and inner, in a
concentrated beam...to pass over our three eyes?
Perhaps an eye for, kept upon--each pillar of time's
trilogy.
Time ensnares our volition to ensure our grace, as the
wind that enlisteth not, bespeaks of it.

What is winter to me, that it smother
with a host of heavenly fingerprints?
What is it, and who am I that its
snowflakes take their rest of me?
Unabashed white, hilt of pure, bidden
common to bid common.
Let us say...we know of such things, to
know not of such things.
Such things are not of discerning order--
but go to the eyes and remain there, as
steadfast with world or other of like.
I submit, tiptoe by the gaping ear of a
slumbering angel.
Wrap me with mine own arms, with
increase to countenance the witness
I bore.
What is winter to me, that it smother
with a host of heavenly fingerprints?
What is it, and who am I that their
snowflakes take their rest of me?
Come now I to know...come now winter
to know, by line of lowly poet, to lowly
snowflake...nothing is spent and not known.

Cut from a moment's charge,
legion with motion...
the sound of a knell held
full sway.
Receiving ends of sound
cried what they could never
qualify.
In answer, and in answer--
adjoined questioningly...
to nonentity.

As if what's thinly
veiled undone by
spindly fingers...
the limbs of the
tree shook withdrawingly,
as the hand of a great
tragedian.
Laced in ice, one could
see water droplets slide
down their silver tunnels...
in a fine melt.

No matter the
sweeping views...
a broomstick
always points
north.

What if the mirror you stare
at suddenly believed in you?
What would the world do
with such a belief?
Would it second that motion
of such a Coming...mirroring
belief?