Beyond the Prism of Aphorisms

An Escarpment of memories Distilled into form Congealed to moisture Before the storm. I visit vagaries of such places where measuring worlds Or matching faces Upon that inward surface Of a glassy eye, May bring one tears to cry. I try to keep them from escaping I cannot be their jailer, I stand without an argument, A broken sailor. Leaning on rebuke, Watching stronger currents flow. Torrents breaking my resistance, I let go. Release my silent shout. Each time I pause to ponder Slow my spirit, travel yonder. Amazed at how the moving And the stillness merge to Now. The breath of God, Revealed somehow. The line or edge or crack or curtain Whatever you call it, you can be certain It is the place where all that is: Becomes. The fraction of the smallest passing In between the crumbs. Not raw potential, mud or clay; Nor finished moment, end of day. This moving stillness that we call creation, A touch of which, brings joy and true elation. Think of Air and you have found me For I have thought on air; Now, I surround Thee. But for this one moment; I am not; Nor ever did I be. Without the Air and Thee There would be no Me.