Joy In The Fleeting Moments

The dust under mindless feet
The wake of men and women
neither here nor there
neither now nor then nor ever
The air rustled gently by the flight
of white doves
The crackle of the flame
burning eternally smokeless
The drop of sweat beading
down a pack donkey
The rattle of a beggar’s bowl
and the chime that stirs when
a bell has already rung
itself hoarse
The wear and tear of smooth stone
over centuries
The gust of wind on a dry
summer afternoon
The swirl of autumn leaves
as they let go
so irrevocably, never to return
The turn of wheels in the
water, in the mills grinding
grains of wheat, true
gold of the earth,
the turn of the stars
the silent joy of sanctuaries
the language that trees
shout and laugh and sing in
the movement of their dance
the darting impulse of one
thought after another
and light behind the retina
of my two eyes and the
one and two and three eyes of
all beautiful things that
blink in wonder at
a new sunrise
and the orchestra of the setting sun
there is no joy as potent as the one that flows
my veins
and I swear, I swear, I swear
that I am at once all
of this
and utterly nothing.