How a bird about to sing, instinctively seeks the highest branch.
How a bell about to ring, shivers at the hand.
How a joy about to be, has always been.
How you are the bird, the song, the branch, the bell,
The sound, the hand, the joy,
The now, the when.
And how, and then, in one last breath,
You put it down, and pick it up, and smile,
Because the only way to end, is to begin again.
[ 8 ]
Categories: New Poems & Pieces