That With Which We Name The World

When the seasons slip
Too fast like sand
Paper across our foreheads,
When our penumbra of pain crests to spill
Like a moon bleeding her dark light
Ink night all over our muted stars,
When the ever unassailable awareness of
That which will outlast us fires itself awake,
What else is left to do
But gather up our things
Write to those who need to know,
And sing?
Perhaps I retreat forever into the Transcendent,
Perhaps I am the only monk left chanting
To Myself in a once forgotten temple,
Perhaps the golden ice that drifts down in flakes
To shine the people and pavement
Alive is a myth, and comes not from heaven
But only from the tenuous delicacy
We call words.
Still all the questioning qualifiers can't
Pull the breath from my living lungs
Unless I command them out like marching soldiers,
Still my heartbeats will never be numbered,
Still the World sits as the trees breathe for us.