what is time but the ever-present blooming of life?
the playful flourescence tickling the interstices of reality
beckoning towards ripeness all the shy possibilities
a cascading into love
not memory but the transformation of memory
folding forward into itself the endless rumination
the breakings and the mendings, the joys and the sorrows
all that we have and have not
concrescing, involuting, exploring, creating
a jazz metamorphosis
calls what is quietly fermenting forth
into the threads of all tomorrows
weaving what has become into the wonder of becoming
and so with what smiles and what terrors
do we tumble into the oncoming rush of ourselves
forever finding anew the precarious preciousness of
that silent inner witness
as it draws the shimmering outline of our one heart
over and over again in the clay of our spirit self
we are but the mirror to the world that mirrors us
an awaiting of time in the presence of the timeless
and when the timless comes to pass
we pass with it too, into worlds beyond worlds beyond worlds
and together we bloom again
01.18.18
For Grandma Alice, on her 100th Birthday