and nothing Was, as it shall Seem

 

 

 

In Thy DewPoint

(  gListening  )

  

 

from The View,  I rest for a Moment,  with My Hands upon the Age-worn

oaken Beam which stands,  for Ever,  as The Rail of Sighs,  and I watch

The Flow of The River below Me,  steadfast and resolute,  in It’s Path

      across The Sky . . .

endless rhythmic Undulations reveal It’s Passage upon the mighty

Pilings,  driven Deep,  into It’s Sacred Heart,  leaving darkened

Rings on Each wooden Face,  as if to mark the eternal Rise,

      and Fall of Men . . .

and There,  playfully drifting upon It’s liquid Glass,  like errant

Children,  yet graced with a certain Purpose,  a delicate Intimacy

with The River Itself,  deftly pirouetting along The Bridge of Time,

      come The Leaves . . .

and,  before Silence could say A Word,  and before When could find

The Reason for Because,  I heard a quiet Hush of Voices,  lifting Up

from Each and Every Leaf,  a brilliant Tapestry of Sound,  Colors of

Every Hue and Cry,  A Myriad of Joyous Tidings,  of A Grand and

      Glorious New Day . . .

 

 

 

from Book III,  The Diamond ( Third Beginning ) The Twelfth DoveTale – The Symphony of Moments

 

 

 

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