The clouds, spreading themselves across the sky
As spontaneous brushstrokes upon the canvas
And the trees, having found reassurance from the evening light
Steady their bows
And reassure the creatures, who now -
String their melodies across the canvas,
Whose eternal patterns appear now -
Not so erratic,
But rather the careful brushwork of some grand design.
And now we wonder - a chapter of the change
"Could there be, after all, one first mover?"
(but without capitals of course).
Now these years of rational thought
Dissolve at the sounds of the soft dusk
And sights that are everything - or nothing at all-
Or the exact words of the Romantics
Whose verses skim across the sky like the clouds themselves-
Or infinite other things.
At this moment
The body, not resentful - but still static
Lets forth instead the mind to project its frame across the sky
And through the white waters - suspended.
Now we wonder "How could there be pain or hate below the clouds - " despite having just read the evening news.
And from the world absorbed, we let forth
An infinite stream of thoughts that unfurl
Across the darkening sky.