A word about to be spoken
ends in its weight
as a drifting river
to a space that drops
its shadow, or as a pendant
that swings in the listener's eyes,
alive with want and disbelief.
Before the poem is written,
there is a stillness of winter branches
like a runner leaping over a hurdle,
when the obstacle and you don't matter.
When the feet touch the dirt, you know
yourself as your history and images awaken
in contact of where gravity delivered
you through the illusion of motion.
Like a child you were unaware of the points
of infinity that split your presence in divits,
where the assumption of wholeness separated
from its believing, and lowerd its glare of ignorance
You have been here as long as you.
Don't worry about moving.
There will be a time when the guide of a clock
is set to its opposite. It will be only time
until there will be no beginning. Go back
and you will forget who you are. And when
you are born, try to remember what was before.