Saturday, August 05, 2006


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.
unending alteration,
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.

No comments:

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

Site Hits