Time Through the Window

....Time....

I look through the pane,
and find a way out
     of my angst . . .
through the window
    . . .  I fly to the top of the pine
putting on the wings
               . . . of it's cones
and there I tumble from bough
  to bough,
catching my sharp edges
. . . on green needles,
                           gathering
the soft dew. . .
   as I flow
like thunder . . . 

                 

That which we capture in our hearts
is safe from loss
bound by an endlessness which
engulfs the stars,
the blue
and a dreaming pine-cone
with wings . . .

So confess:  the lily's bloom
extracts a certain lightness
                                    in our being,
as beauty,
                 . . . effervescent
of heaven . . .
where is our loss,
our final destination                     
                           . . .  where bleak the dark
or bright the light . . .                   
we yet have wings . .
    and know
 . . the dream released . .
Explain:  the empty shell,
its tender clasp of breath
is sunset's glory . . .
 

 . . . a rim of pink
a reflection of blood             
the crimson of life
                                let go.

The Angel of Death
 has wings
of beating hearts,
 a voice of tears . . .
falling,

grasping hands
of time's relentless
                        . . . sands

eyes of infinity's
                                darkness 

        and endless
pain turns a corner . . . 

A light drips
slowly into pools
of golden
              love . . .

Stand beneath the
                               tree
where she drops her
. . . leaves
and sunlight filters           
through
her ever reaching
 . . .  branches
raindrops disclose
molten silver,
reflecting endless
 . . . colors
of thought                         
the rough edges
                  of black clouds
eclipse the watery
. . . sun
floating themselves                                    
into oblivion
until evaporation                          
. . . charms                                                
an upturned land,                                                                      
the shape of all                             
. . .  things                                                      
. . . eroded                                                  
by the feather light
grip
of time . . .

All pictures taken at St. Cirq Lapopie, France