The Golden Our

There comes a time, in the early, but not so early, morn when, and this is key, if a portion of an instant rationed a morsel of a moment - but a crumb of that fell free and it cast a deep shadow whose depths made mockeries of spelunk; which you may remember you'd dreamt of in some past life and, if from this minusculity sprang, the littlest offspring, a hint of a glance of, a coup d'oeil the last of day, the half-remembered, prior life when, if you glimpse the newborn gold, your heart'll still, your mind'll still and yes, your stillness be distilled into stiller still if your heart and eyes don't again conspire to draw your mind to your routine of first and, perhaps only, taking in the most of things the highlights and the canopy's myriad meanderings the rootings at their footings supposed but rarely seen in dark, in secret but carrying no wrong rather though in the tree trunks' simple middle for a briefest, gilted eternity, the trees will burn not from their crown nor from their feet and, despite the ice, the sparkless space, the cold steel darts of insistent slanting rains, the trees will burn, the trees will burn, and all-at-once the peripatetic sun, its whims having won, will dance along and share its breath with everyone