5 August 2006, 1:57 PM
So accustomed to an unchanging glimpse-
a painting, poem, book or song-
encapsulation, representation of a moment
in time, though not the moment itself-
it no longer exists.
The essence of time: Movement.
occasionally imperceptible. Beauty indwells
the painting, poem, book and song
because it captures movement
of a unique and unrepeatable measure of time.
Love and long for it with hands, arms, heart
wide open to the possibility; probability
such will not last; is only held for being
set free to run its course; bring deep sadness;
joy inexpressible, a gift for salvation
if we let it.