movement as a disguise

movement is my rhapsody. 

the wind dancing with branches 

held up into the sky,

the sun's evaporative dance, 

with moisture's magical disappearance,

the rhythmic here to there of monotony 

as traffic's line-dance brigade,

the scramble of itty-bitty birds, 

as if in last touches 

on a landscape-scene unfolding,

the way lips pleasure the evocatives 

of sound coming forth,

even the witness of blinks,

mine or yours,

offers sensuous reward 

in witness remembrance.

I could take all sounds 

through their pronouncements

and consider that movement, 

into my being.

even stillness,

held in the slight shivers of constancy,

are a euphoria of whimsical embrace.

for there is rapture in sensing

the grace of embodiment's blessing.

sure there are fast cars and fireworks

that live in overstatements,

as objects the vastly pronounce.

but in essence,

movement on the intake,

is a sacred reminder 

of the isness of all.

if rain could only tell of its journey,

if concrete could speak of a days in passing,

if roots would secrets reveal,

if motion was a god,

then all movement would be angels,

ever addressing our needs.

there is the joy of spellbound-ness. 

it's my reverence that comes from sensing.

I could converse with a bloom forthcoming,

discrete clouds in passing,

humidity singing the chorus,

even the space between fragrance impressing.

motion is ever the tease,

as if oneness is ever

in its blessed disguise . . .