Distilled Purity

One has to like the price, which never fluctuates. It floats, like some suspended orb imparted from another heaven, perhaps... itself a consciousness unknown and undefiled. It is the good the ages seek, still there before our eyes. Were there a formula, a prize to touch or taste, it would not occupy the metaphor of grace nor scorn its worshipers. There's time to let the rain sweep down the valley, time to revel in the harvest when the fullness comes. It's time to yield a little, come alive to listen while the piper plays; the air is sweet, the song is of the eminence of day. If there is any paradise let us make room for it within our precious now though set upon with every fond device of intellect to struggle to our feet; the highest good not ours alone, persists in that strange crystalline precipitate when all is done—old Paul knew what it was and called it love. ~