this figure now before me,
made of ice & shadows,
of migrant spheres,

fills in rhyme
in broken time
to otherwise concise pattern.

a song on the rocks,
a splash in the air,
the blizzard in your eyes.

a toast to the metaphysical
vision of creation or its poem
yet to be accurately written.

in the meantime let
existance be as zeno’s arrow
going nowhere but in suspense.

Gift of Tongues