beauty of being

there is the beauty 

of holding on 

to not enough,

to artfulness 

that never makes it

to the manifest,

for the in-breath of patience 

waiting its turn,

for how zest inscrutably hides

wildly in plain sight,

for where elixirs commonplace 

before performance of their service,

and to see how language is 

always the caboose,

of what feelings have arrived 

from one's train of thought.

oh, to be held confoundedly 

in the wings made of air

and have truth whispered 

in the ever-slights of passing.

and to be in the incentive of surrender,

knowing that being lost 

is grander than the certitude of being found,

and to feel for judgment,

that has the art-form of those still photos,

that where, when taken,

as well as all the negatives from then

were immediately yet mysteriously self-destroyed. 

and that what I call 'finding',

is actually a mirror-surface reflecting back, 

more the me of my self remembered,

yet still on the cutting edge of presenting

me, of the grandly,

still unknowably unknown . . .