Behind the mask of summer sun,
the green rush of spring,
the peace of winter’s silence,
and autumn’s fiery crown
there are only moments strung together.
Beads on a chain,
each as valued as the next;
a necklace fashioned
of attention to this day.
What is gone
and what will be
are links fingered lightly
while we chant
the only word we know:
now, the glue
of our daily round,
the shining center
from where we came,
to which we shall return.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXEqdR9kFLQJLlxTYZBeTuJsX3nSr6wybRn4XLmXJQsd54edhX_GdRv7q6v4k0IfvKfsO02kubwKCaZBv7oxUkDDrgoM2ERvoHybw0A7ZWUHleUvpjTsnQW8zlHol5DA6VhhKnAMGIV8/s1600/875776edcb220a7e9d9afb.L._V155856302_SX200_.jpg)
Art credit: "As Above So Below," photograph by Tim Gainey.
I cherish the imagery of this poem!
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete