As she decends with
Impulsive intensity,
she both illuminates and suppresses.
The saturated colors
assuming a temporary transparency,
cling desperately to rebellious shadows
which darken and grow tenacious.
But all the fervency is muted by the magnitude of the moment,
And watching,
I and all things of human effort fade
and in the hush surrounding
the greatness of that hour,
every breath

Vacant, ancient, old man Barney,
What do your excess of wrinkles imply,
On what impulse did I frame your gaze,
What does this picture before me lie?

Why do you stare on through me,
Through what I do and what I am?
Though I knew you, I know you not,
Who were you old man?

Lately you cast a fear on my heart.
Today there's a path where my tears have been.
Where does the newborn baby you were
Hide in your shriveled skin?

My children are playing among my feet,
Happiness lies in their way,
Can you be here to remind me
To fix my eyes on today?

To etch my wrinkles in delight,
To carve the crevasses in play,
To hold the hand of one I love,
To fix my eyes on today.

This is clearly not what you expected friend, is it?
And how long was it that you waited?
Anticipation shed a glorious light,
Light falling on dancing shadows.
And you trace those shadows on my face.
Where you find beauty beneath darkness
Mystifies me

How quickly the threat of fire delineates,
how fast it distiguishes true value,

This small house, egostitically settled,
shivers at the thought.

I gather photographs and consider
what would burn - more than 'Jamesborough Gold,'

More than books and careful decor.
Strange things, esoteric, would burn:

Evaporated sweat,
purified through restless labour.

Dreams and designs,
the whispers of hope.

Inconsequential memories.
Familiar smells and atmosphere.

Strange things irreplacable would burn.

One storm passes and this nights fear settles,
like dust, among other unassuming memories...

Imagine letting this drink slide
through my fingers…
Potential falling dense and heavy
Toward a concrete death,
like lead through the barrel of a gun.
I imagine, in slow motion,
the silence of this
fall…
.
     .  .
          .  .   .     .
and
the gentle clink
as glass kisses stone.

Imagine the bravery of living
in the moment.

To watch the surge of liquid
rising up against gravity,
The velvet glide of ice
across a hot surface,
and the shattering of glass.