Direct Aim
The silk clock melts on the horizon’s crest,
As shadows aim their arrows at the sun,
A marble eye surveys the tangled sequence,
Before the silver journey has begun.
The target is a mirror made of breath,
It shatters into singing hummingbirds,
To dance across the emerald fields of light,
Without a single, cold, acoustic word.
A telescope looks backward through the void,
Where vision aims to catch the quiet fire,
The geometry of space is now transformed,
To fulfill the spirit’s waking, slow desire.
Now rests the focus in the palm of sand,
A feather weight upon a heavy tide,
It waits to bloom upon the seeker’s point,
Where aim and destination coincide.
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