Timing is a constant,
the way that wet is unto itself.
We, as scavengers, have events,
live for right lighting,
breathe poignancy,
say prayers depiction pronounces,
filling almost all of the time.
Yet timing is a wisdom,
read between the lines,
that literacy cannot improve.
Timing is a pushpin of oneself
that perforates and punctuates
the map of now,
but never pauses to be posing.
Timing, in and of itself,
has no declaration.
It has the dedication of a beehive
and the fervor of an ant colony,
the foot forward that never plants,
yet no greeter, no front door.
Timing is viscous without exception,
honorable without an apparent code,
dignified yet unassuming,
intimate yet ever far reaching,
offering satiable elegance,
while being thoroughly confluent
and yet, a quick death
in our recognition’s spotlight.
Timing is the nothing of an act
but the everything
of the observation.
Timing is as sacred
as the mountaintop
of most cherished memories
and yet, leaves no relics or signage
as endearment signatures.
Timing has
forth-dimensional camouflage
in its DNA,
breathes with
a tongue lash of lightning
but does not burn,
and has no per se, flame.
It has a universe as its play land.
While we have it on myopic hearsay,
in the way we live in our land
of lost and found.
Timing gives no proof,
has no outstanding warrants,
asks for little or nothing in response,
gifts in the strangest of ways,
comes in, out of the blue,
pronounces itself,
and then, without further ado,
vanishes back into
the lushness of hush. . .
as is,
the splendor of timing.
No comments:
Post a Comment