The happening!
A blinded stroke of brush.
Stroke!
That way! Which way? That way!

Somewhere in the sky,
Above the curtains of clouds, drowning,
Time’s alone shadow.
Maybe,

The paint runs down the river’s spine,
To the beginning.
The artist drenched in roots,
A tree he is becoming.
The art indeed!

Does the wind know?
Blowing lilacs and smelling of golden dusk.
Frail and fragile like a dying leaf.
Bright like the Moon’s halo.

Happening is a river that glows!
Inside the known, just as
Inside the unknown.