A fold here,
another there.
I straighten it's wings
to make sure they fly as far as they can.

I swing my arm back,
and let go.

I watch as the wind carries my feelings away.

I hope that the wind carries my heart to you.

Why do I write when I am sad?
My life, really, isn't so bad.
But when times are dull, cold or blue
When it's the start of nothing new
When work is done and one is bored
When thoughts depress one even more
Words are born- itches in the brain
I write them down, I'm rid of pain.
It may not be put down so well
But it describes what I've to tell.
When my mind sings an elegy
Words are carols for company.

1122

’Tis my first night beneath the Sun
If I should spend it here—
Above him is too low a height
For his Barometer
Who Airs of expectation breathes
And takes the Wind at prime—
But Distance his Delights confides
To those who visit him—

The laughter of leaves
whisper testament
over cool caverns,
ancient moss
the absurdity of clocks
dashed upon rocks
while they dance,
backlit with sunglow,
at the true speed
of life
daring us to defy
the timeless tapestry
in which all are woven
Do stones large and small
not rustle
like leaves
in the eye of the mountain?
and is the leaf not as solid
as stone, to the aphid?
And what lives between
two lover-friends?
It is no brief candle
measured with ticks
on numbered dials
It moves not with the flash
of a single spark
Nor with the slow glow
of dawn
In gentle illumination
it is a soft gentle kiss
drifting on mist,
and it moves
at the speed of love,
with the rhythm of life

Copyright © 2016 K. Rush

Nothing exists except atoms and space,
And everything else is opinion,
Yet we can't determine the time of their place,
And relative distance between 'em.

If I could understand,
With a wave of my hand,
All that is, and what lies in between,
I probably wouldn't,
For fear that I couldn't
Unsee what what I might think obscene.

What if, for example,
I could indeed sample
All knowledge there is to be known?
Would I be enlightened,
Or possibly frightened?
Depressed once all mystery's gone?

If nothing exists except atoms and space,
And if everything else is opinion,
Then surely opinion's mankind's saving grace;
The source of the beauty within 'em