Curt Is The Dance Of Time

Blue, white flashes steal away in the Eastern sky.

Cosmic battles churn fervently in the dark of night.

The last of summer’s honeysuckles cling precariously to the vine.

Lost now are the scents of a dying summer as the season declines.

Faint are the whispers which swoon in accord around the dark forest of trees.

The fireflies light is now faded; his season claimed; his light at last set free.

The harmony of nature rolls like unto a river into both my heart and mind.

I taste the coming season; I see the approaching day for curt is the dance of time.

To see and to feel; to hear the whispers that calls in secret your name.

Awash is the soul in humble emotion when one knows from whence the call came.

Thus I now look up and into the violent Eastern sky.

I look up and know that I know and I question not why.

J. Allen Wilson © 8/27/2010