I learn of time and space, and the marriage and wholeness of both, but have little in the way of understanding my own to them. What is this mortal coil that grows and springs to collapse again? What is its place in things that are, were and will be, but to identify the indefinable "now"?
As space is whole, so is time, and the marriage. To begin; to end; to be is a luxury; an illusion; a partiality that yields itself to the all-ness eternally.
Poetry is to will and toil by day, to go about a path and then to rest beside it when night falls. To see what is before you, what lies behind, and how the stars turn and kiss you by their light, that light that began its journey before you, and after, and during.
There are no words. And this is my silence. To say nothing! The luxury! The illusion!